


Apollo Shrugged

by Morbidmuch



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, F/M, Paris Uprising 1832, Post-Barricade, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-03-26 13:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 47,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13858380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbidmuch/pseuds/Morbidmuch
Summary: REUPLOADHe'd told her no women were allowed at the meetings, and she had called him out on his hypocrisy in such a manner he had scarcely been spoken to by a woman before. And that was how she came to stay.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewritten, reworked and revamped version of this little story of mine. If you're new here, welcome, and if you've been here before, welcome back! This story is a mix of the brick/musical/2012 film, and possibly with some historical inaccuracies.
> 
> Disclaimer: I only own my original characters, everything else belongs to Victor Hugo.

**Chapter 1**

The neighbourhood of Saint-Michel lay mostly dark, shutters closed tightly against the cold November wind. Despite the near deserted streets though, it wasn't quiet. Boisterous laughter from the bars and cafés, the sounds of family disputes and arguments on the streets could always be heard regardless of the time of day. One figure stood out among the rest, dark coat wrapped tightly around her frame and face buried in a thick scarf. Her pace quickened and soon she reached her destination. The two story building didn't look like much from the outside, but lights were shining through the windows and the sounds of revelry from inside heightened in volume when she pulled the door open and entered. At once, the familiar sounds and smells of Café Musain surrounded her, bringing a warmth to her chest. She unwrapped her scarf revealing a rosy face with full brows over hazel eyes, delicate cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips that curled into a smile when her name was called.

“Sophie!”

She walked towards the back of the café to meet her friend. “Feuilly, how fine it is to see you.”

“You've chosen a fine night to join us,” he said as he offered her his arm and lead her upstairs. “Combeferre tells me Enjolras has an especially invigorating speech planned for tonight.” He knocked in a particular pattern on the door they had now come to stand in front of, and her stomach clenched. She hadn't set foot in the back room for months, since before the riot at Place Vendôme.

The door opened, and with Feuilly's call of “Look who I found!” Sophie found herself the centre of attention.

“Sophie!”

It was Courfeyrac who spoke first, rising swiftly from the table and nearly spilling his wine in the process, and flouncing towards her. Only Courfeyrac could flounce and still look dignified. Sophie laughed when the dandy swept her off her feet, spinning her around and placing a wet kiss on her cheek.

“How I've missed you,” she spoke when he finally set her down. “Have you managed to stay out of trouble while I was away?”

“Not in the slightest,” he grinned, helping her out of her coat.

Less flamboyant, but no less heartfelt, reunions followed. Combeferre kissed her hand; Joly tried to dissuade her hug with regards to his cold, and possible pneumonia according to himself, but she hugged him anyway. Bahorel shook her hand vehemently, and Jehan kissed her cheek. Pulling back, her gaze was drawn towards the table in the corner and her stomach clenched. Enjolras' deep-set eyes were locked on her, brows knitted together. She'd almost forgotten how intense his gaze could be. His blond curls looked as if he'd run his hands through them in frustration multiple times, which was highly likely.

He stood when she approached the table. “Citizeness Guilhon. I did not know you were back in Paris.”

Her heart sank at the formal address. “I arrived from Bernay only earlier today.”

Enjolras looked as conflicted as she felt, and he braced himself to speak but was interrupted by a large crash. They both looked over and Sophie laughed. Grantaire had slid off the chair he'd been sleeping on and was now trying to stand, muttering curses underneath his breath. His eyes met Sophie's, and he grinned. He was by her side in an instant, almost tripping over his own feet and sending them both tumbling into a table in the process.

“You are a sight for sore eyes!”

“I'm happy to see you,” she smiled, brushing some dust from his emerald waistcoat.

“Come, join me for a drink.”

He whisked her away to an empty table and poured her a drink. Courfeyrac and Joly soon joined them and struck up a game of cards. Through the game, the laughing, and the teasing, Sophie was painfully aware Enjolras was sitting a few tables away. A few times she thought she saw him looking in her direction from the corner of her eye, but when she dared to look he was always staring down at the papers in front of him.

The scrape of a chair against the floor and Enjolras calling out “Friends, brothers!” made everyone look up, and Sophie put down her cards as he climbed onto a table.

With the first words leaving his lips, Sophie was enthralled. There was something about Enjolras that inspired people, made them hang on to his every word. People were drawn to him like moths to a flame, which Sophie thought ironic given the fearless leader's adversity to the insect. He spoke with passion, his eyes fiery and cheeks flushed. Ambitious and focused, he lived for the people and for the revolution. Grantaire teased on several occasions that the leader's lips had touched nothing but food and drink, and thinking of it made Sophie flush because she knew the statement was untrue.

She was pulled from her thoughts when the entire room broke out in loud applauds and cries of 'Vive la France!'. Enjolras stepped down, grasped Combeferre's outstretched hand and nodded at something the bespectacled man said. The meeting continued, and Sophie sat back and mostly listened. Months away meant she needed to get caught up on the new business. Once the meeting was over the noise level rose again, more card games and louder conversations started and Grantaire ordered more absinthe.

Courfeyrac threw his cards on the table. “Damn it all to hell!” Two pairs with sixes and threes were no winning hand, and he eyed the small pile of coins he had now lost. Maybe he ought to write his mother and ask for more funds.

“Watch your tongue,” Jehan commented, not looking up from his booklet where he was practising his Hebrew.

“You brute,” Grantaire slurred, aiming a kick at Courfeyrac's chair, “that is no language to use in the company of the weaker sex,” he winked at Sophie.

She grinned as she showed her winning hand. “Women may be considered the weaker sex, but there is nothing more fragile than the male ego.”

Both Courfeyrac and Grantaire let out such hearty laughs it drew the attention of other members of the room and Sophie's eyes met Enjolras'. Unwavering she met his gaze in a silent challenge. It was he who broke the contact first, drawing his eyes back to the pamphlet in his hands. She allowed her eyes to rest on his form a few seconds longer, taking in his undone cravat and rolled up shirtsleeves. The flickering candles on the table lit up his face, illuminating his aquiline nose and clenched jaw. Looking back at her tablemates, she didn't miss Grantaire's sly grin. A drunkard he may be, but he saw more than people gave him credit for.

She pocketed her winnings and smiled. “One more game?”

It was late when the weariness of the day swept over her. The back room was still animated with spirits and conversation, though Jehan had left an hour earlier saying he wanted to catch the moonlight over the Seine and practice his Hebrew, and Courfeyrac had left with a wink claiming he was meeting a friend for a nightcap. Grantaire had retreated to his usual spot in the corner, drinking absinthe and looking sullen, and Enjolras and Combeferre were in deep discussion, voices hushed and heads close together.

Yawning, Sophie stood and walked over to Enjolras and Combeferre to say goodbye. “It's been a lovely evening, but I'm rather tired so I think I'll retire.”

“You should not walk home alone this late,” Combeferre said, standing up straight and wincing as his spine cracked.

“Oh, that's not necessary, it's nowhere near your lodgings.”

He looked as though he wanted to object but before he could, Enjolras spoke. “I can escort you, with your permission.”

Heart pounding, she nodded. “You may.”

He waited by the door while she said her good nights, and they walked in silence downstairs to the main area of the café. His guiding hand on the small of her back made her spine tingle. Once outside she had no problems matching his determined, fast-paced steps. That was one thing to be said about Enjolras; he always walked with purpose, even when he didn't have one.

It was he who broke the silence. “How is your father?”

She chuckled dryly. “That is a complicated question.”

The corners of his mouth curled upwards slightly. “That sounds ominous.”

Sophie pushed back a strand of chestnut hair that had escaped the pins. “He disapproves of my decision to live in Paris, as well as the company I keep.” She smiled sadly. “For all intents and purposes, I no longer have a father. He practically disowned me when I made it clear to him I would be returning to Paris. After what happened to Joseph, I can hardly blame him.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. I'm sure he will come around soon enough. He's always been hot-headed.”

“I know the Amis are overjoyed you are back, Prouvaire especially. He's tried to convince each of us to join his poetry meetings while you were away.”

Her stomach sank slightly. They were overjoyed? Did that mean he wasn't? “You are talented with words, why didn't you join him?”

Her words made him chuckle, no doubt in response to a memory of such an affair. “I did, although I must confess my patience for poetry is lacking.”

They had now reached her tenement at Rue Meunier, which was darkened. Stopping on the stoop, Sophie turned to face him. “Thank you for walking me home, it really wasn't necessary.”

“Think nothing of it. Good night, Citizeness.”

“Good night, Monsieur.” Sophie felt his eyes on her as she unlocked the door and let herself in. Leaning back against the closed door, she sighed deeply. “You're a fool,” she said to herself, pushing her body away from the door and heading upstairs to her flat.

Locking the door behind her, Sophie lit a candle in the kitchen. Neither the nook she called bedroom nor the combined sitting area and kitchen were spacious, but both rooms had large windows which meant she saved on candles during the summer months. The small flat had been her home for almost a year, since she moved to Paris to be closer to her brother. It was through his medical studies Joseph met Joly and Combeferre, and by association the rest of Les Amis de l'ABC. In his weekly letters he would write about the injustices he saw every day on the streets, and also praise the students and their fight for the equal rights of the people. His passionate words had awoken something in her, a sense of fight she'd hardly known existed before. Convincing her father of her move to Paris hadn't been easy, and there had been months of bargaining and pleading before he finally gave in. And now he wanted nothing to do with her.

She slumped down at the kitchen table with a sigh, leaning her elbows on the surface and burying her face in her hands. Unwelcome, a sadness rose inside her. “I miss you, Joseph,” she said aloud, her voice meeting nothing but silence.

\--

Enjolras looked at the closing door and then stood there until a faint light flickered alight in a window upstairs. Only then did he move, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and walking home briskly. His mind, which was usually bursting with ideas for next meetings, speeches and facts relating to his school work, was overtaken by a single subject which pushed all other things aside. Sophie. When he'd seen her at the Musain earlier that night after months with no word he didn't know what, or how, to feel. Relief, uncertainty, longing, hesitation.

Contrary to what his friends believed he wasn't totally oblivious to women, but there had always been more important things to focus on than chasing after skirts, and most women failed to keep his attention for more than five minutes. Until he'd met her. She had walked into the Musain alongside her brother like she'd been there a hundred times before, and that kind of confidence attracted attention. Most of the other members had welcomed her into the group without hesitation, but of course he had made things difficult from the start. He'd told her no women were allowed at the meetings, and she had called him out on his hypocrisy in such a manner he'd scarcely been spoken to by a woman before. And that was how she came to stay. She was different from the bourgeois girls his mother had pointed in his way during his youth, with their inclination for drama and shallow dispositions. There were a calmness and level of self-assurance in the way she carried herself which had peaked his interest.

Reaching his tenement, he let himself in the darkened building with his passkey. It was a small tenement with only three flats, which he preferred given his less than legal activities and his inclination for pacing at all hours. His flat was bare, bordering on Spartan in all ways but for the overflowing bookcases and large wooden desk it had taken himself, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Bahorel to haul up the two flights of stairs. Lighting the candle on his desk he slumped in his chair, leaning back and pinching the bridge of his nose to try to fight away the headache that had been plaguing him the entire day. Had Joly been there he'd most likely force him to drink some ungodly homemade concoction and order him to get more sleep, but there was no time for that. Looking at the papers littering his desk, he set to finish the paper which was due in the morning. Another sleepless night it would be.

–

Despite having been away from the city for months it took Sophie less than a day to adapt back to the city life. It was decidedly different from the country home where she had been born, and where her father still resided, but she much preferred it. She stopped by a small café to buy breakfast, and her heart ached when she saw how the beggars were overlooked by the people passing by, with not as much as a glance thrown in their direction. She put a couple of sous in as many outreached hands she could until her winnings from the previous night were gone. Still, she wished she could do more.

The biting wind from the previous night had swept away, leaving the day cold but crisp with blue skies and a pale winter sun. Since the weather was so fine she decided to walk to her destination instead of taking an omnibus, and she took the way through the Jardin du Tuileries. It was one of her favourite places in Paris, and she and Joseph had spent much time there in the past. It was difficult walking through the beautiful gardens without her brother, but she knew that if he was beside her he would tell her to brighten up. He had been an unwavering optimist, and thinking of it made her smile.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle!”

Sophie stopped and turned at the voice, and was greeted by the sight of a lancer walking briskly towards her. For a split second she was transported back to Place Vendôme, and her breath caught in her throat. As he came closer, her breath returned as he turned from a faceless symbol of her brother's demise to an unassuming young man. Tall and pale, with light brown hair beneath his hat and a moustache to match.

He held up her handkerchief. “I believe you dropped this?”

“Thank you, Monsieur. It must have fallen out of my purse,” she breathed in relief, reaching out to claim the handkerchief back.

“Think nothing of it, I was merely doing my duty.” He bowed deeply. “Lieutenant Léon Bouchard at your service.”

She curtsied lightly. “I thank you again for your kind service, Lieutenant. I hope you have a pleasant day.”

“Likewise, Mademoiselle.”

Continuing her walk, Sophie sighed. Although the Lieutenant had been perfectly polite, soldiers made her nervous. Perhaps it was because of the less than legal activities she was involved in, perhaps it was the memory of the faceless soldier at Place Vendôme. Most likely it was both.

A boutique on Rue Duphot was her destination, and despite her shoes needing a cobbler and her clothes being both worn and out of fashion in comparison to those around her, Sophie walked into the boutique with her head held high. She was met by a blonde woman in her early 50s, who was wearing a rather ostentatious mourning dress.

She smiled when she spotted Sophie. “Mademoiselle Guilhon, this is a surprise. I trust you are well?”

“Bonjour, Madame Jamet. I am well, thank you.” She twisted her purse string between her fingers. “I've come to ask for a favour. Since I'm back and planning on staying, I'm in need of work. You were very understanding of my needing to leave after my brother's passing, so I've come to ask if you have any need of extra workers?”

Madame Jamet looked regretful. “I'm sorry, Mademoiselle, but I have no open positions at the moment.”

Sophie's heart sank. Pressing her lips tightly together, she managed a weak smile. “I understand. I'll try some other places then. Good day to you, Madame.”

Letting the boutique door close behind her, Sophie let the smile falter. This was hardly the end of the world, but it complicated things. Even though she had never shared her brother's blind optimism, she still tried to see things in a favourable light. Crossing the street, she spotted a familiar figure walking towards her, only taking his eyes from her to wink and grin to a young woman walking past.

“Courfeyrac, what a pleasant surprise!”

The dandy stopped in front of her and made an embellished bow, holding his hat over his heart. “Your faithful servant, Mademoiselle.”

“Say, is that a new hat?” she teased, for Courfeyrac had a knack for buying new hats every other week. Partly because he always seemed to lose them in some inexplicable way, and partly because he liked to keep up with the latest fashions. He had a reputation to uphold after all.

“As a matter of fact, it is.” He put his hat back on carefully as not to disturb his dark curls. She took his offered arm and the two walked down the street. “You should get a new hat as well, you're looking a fright.”

Sophie chuckled. “We cannot all have your keen sense of fashion. So tell me, why are you here at this time of day? Don't you have classes?”

“I was visiting a special friend,” he grinned mischievously, “who knows better than to mock my hat.”

“Mock your hat? I wouldn't dream of such a thing.”

They walked slowly with no particular destination, enjoying the sunshine and each others company. Courfeyrac was her closest friend of the students in the Amis, unlikely it may seem at first glance. 

“I've not asked you what you're doing out and about today. Visiting a secret admirer perhaps?” Courfeyrac winked.

Sophie laughed. “I was looking for work actually; I used to have a position as a seamstress in a boutique near here, but they turned me down this time.”

He mock gasped. “Work? That is quite unfitting for a woman of your stature. You should find a rich husband instead to provide for you.”

She rolled her eyes. “I'm just waiting for your proposal, dearest.”

They stopped for lunch at a nearby café, visited frequently by the dandy. After a meal of bread and warm soup, Courfeyrac spoke. “How are you, really?”

She plastered a too wide smile on her face. “I'm perfectly fine.” At his pointed look, she averted her eyes and let the smile falter. “I'm fine. It's strange though, being here without Joseph. The situation with my father is troublesome. I'm torn between being angry, sad, and understanding his reasoning.”

“Your father will come around, I'm sure of it. I think it's strange without Joseph too,” he admitted. Meeting his eyes, she was surprised to see melancholy in them. “It took weeks before I stopped expecting him to walk into the Musain, and Combeferre still counted him in last time he spoke of our medical resources.”

This made her smile. “Jehan sent me some lovely poems whilst I was away, and they made me miss him a little less.”

Courfeyrac touched her hand gently. “We'll always miss him, he was a good man.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “A change of venue perhaps? Classes are out for the day, I daresay our friends are already at the Musain.”

The sun had disappeared behind the horizon and they walked quickly to keep warm. Both were rosy-cheeked and giggling when they entered the back room of the Musain, and a cheer went up in greeting. Courfeyrac got them some mulled wine and Sophie removed her scarf while taking in the room.

At one table Jehan was writing furiously in his notebook, clad in a waistcoat in an unflattering shade of green which clashed horribly with his cravat. Joly was tending to Bossuet, who had a split lip, whilst talking to Bahorel who was nursing his bruised fist. There was a story to be told there, she wagered. Feuilly and Enjolras were having a discussion about France's involvement in the occupation of Poland, and Grantaire sat in his usual corner nursing a bottle of absinthe. She joined Combeferre at a table, and soon Courfeyrac appeared with their mulled wine. He sat with a sigh and slung his arm over the back of Sophie's chair.

She took a sip, feeling the liquid warm her from within. “How much do I owe you for the wine?”

He waved away her question. “It's on me, think nothing of it.”

“You paid for lunch,” she protested. “I'm not your mistress, I can pay my own way.”

“Get the next one and call it even,” he winked.

“Are you even capable of interacting with a woman without flirting with her?” Combeferre asked, and the dandy laughed.

“Not really. Isn't that right, cherie?”

Feuilly joined them, and let out a laugh. “He even flirted with the bearded lady at the fair last summer, remember?”

“In my defence, she was very beautiful, even with the beard.”

“Was that the same one when Bossuet tore down three stilt walkers?”

Feuilly nodded at Sophie's question. “And Joly bought a remedy for coughs which turned out to be cat droppings,” Courfeyrac laughed, nearly spilling his drink all over himself.

Turning away from the conversation her eyes fell upon Enjolras, who was watching her with a furrowed brow. Hesitating only for a moment, she rose and walked over to him, hands clasped firmly around her mug of mulled wine. “I'm going to Place Vendôme tomorrow. Will you come with me?”

Enjolras put down his pen and nodded. “I have classes until midday, if you don't mind waiting until then?”

She nodded. “That's fine. Thank you.”

His eyes softened. “There's no need to thank me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I only own my original characters, everything else belongs to Victor Hugo.

**Chapter 2**

The shop Sophie was headed to the following morning was a far more modest establishment than her previous workplace, located near the north-west corner of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Through the shop window she could see her friend by the workbench sewing lace trim to a dress, and she pushed the door open with a smile.

Musichetta's face lit up at the sight of her friend. “Sophie!” The two friends hugged. “Henri told me you were back. I was wondering when you'd come by and see me.”

“I'm happy to be back,” Sophie admitted. “How are you?”

Exhaling through a smile, Musichetta brushed an unruly dark lock away from her forehead. “I'm good, just busy. One of the girls quit a couple of weeks ago, so we've been behind on orders.”

“You wouldn't be in need of an extra set of hands? I'm looking for work, and you know I have the experience.”

“That would be wonderful!” Musichetta exclaimed. “I'll talk to Monsieur Foulon when he comes in later today, but I'm sure it won't be a problem.”

Sophie breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. I'll admit I was a bit worried about not finding work again after I returned.”

Musichetta stepped back to the workbench. “I thought your father sends you money?”

Sophie followed, leaning back against the workbench and unbuttoning her coat. “He used to, yes, but as we are no longer on speaking terms I doubt he will continue to do so.”

“I'm sorry, that is terrible. If you need help with anything, don't hesitate to ask.”

Sophie smiled lightly. “Thank you. But enough about me! Have I missed anything particularly interesting while I was away?”

As it usually does in good company, time flew as they caught up with missed events. The two women had become close friends rather soon after first meeting, being close in age and of similar disposition. Shorter than Sophie, Musichetta had deep brown eyes, a dimpled smile and dark curly hair which frequently broke loose of the combs and pins she tried to coax it into. The seamstress had been a breeze of fresh air for Sophie who, while she adored her brother and the Amis, missed female company. 

Glancing at her pocket watch, Sophie stood. “I need to get going. I'm meeting Enjolras at the Sorbonne, and I don't want to be late.”

Musichetta smiled mischievously. “I see. We wouldn't want to keep him waiting.”

Sophie winked. “Punctuality is a virtue.”

After saying goodbye, she strode towards the Sorbonne with fast steps. She had barely reached the plaza when the doors opened and students began spilling out, talking animatedly to each other. She spotted Enjolras' blond curls right away, and when their eyes met he nodded in acknowledgement.

“I hope I haven't kept you waiting,” he said by way of greeting when he reached her, pulling a worn leather satchel across his body.

“Not at all, I only just arrived.” They started walking, and Sophie took a last look at the building with a sigh. 

“Is something troubling you?” Enjolras asked as they boarded an omnibus, stepping aside to let her sit before taking the vacant seat by her side.

She shrugged. “I was just thinking of universities. Do you think women will ever be allowed the same education as men?”

“I do,” he spoke with confidence. “It might be slow, but change is inevitable. Regardless of sex, education is important. An uneducated mind is an ignorant one.”

“By that mindset, I suppose I'm to be considered ignorant?” she teased, touching his arm briefly.

Enjolras chuckled. “No one who spends more than ten minutes with you could accuse you of being uneducated.”

Alighting the omnibus, Sophie's heart was racing. As she looked around Place Vendôme she was struck by how different it looked from when she was there last. No panic, no soldiers, no gunshots. Instead, there were people strolling through the square and fiacres driving past.

She exhaled shakily. “How can life go on as if nothing happened here? Like people weren't killed, like dreams weren't shattered?” the words tasted bitter in her mouth and she tore her eyes away from the scene to the revolutionary at her side.

His brows were knitted together, face filled with tension. “Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it's not there. People do remember, and it's with the memory of that the people will rise again. Your brother didn't die in vain.”

Turning to face him, Sophie stepped a bit closer. “Hearing you say that means a lot to me. I've been angry at Joseph for making the decision he did that day, but he wouldn't be my brother if he didn't fight for what he thought was right.”

Enjolras cleared his throat, and her eyes were drawn to his lips when he wet them before speaking. “I feel I owe you an apology. I'm sorry for not writing you while you were away. I must admit I wasn't sure what to write, or if a letter from me would even be welcome.”

Sophie's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, remembering her harsh words towards him in the days after Joseph's death. “I want to apologise too. I was unfair to you and said a lot of things I didn't mean, and I'm sorry for that. I regret leaving things on such terms between us.”

“As do I. We both made mistakes we wish could be undone.” He lowered his head to easier look into her eyes and when he spoke, his voice was low. “For what it's worth, I've missed you.”

She smiled. “I've missed you as well.” Their eyes stayed locked until the intensity became too much, and swiftly she looked away. 

He cleared his throat. “It can't mean anything, not now. There is too much going on, more important things.”

She nodded, biting her lip. His words didn't hurt because she agreed with them fully. There could be no distractions. He was the fearless leader, a sober believer with strength in everything he did. Most people knew him only as the driven and passionate leader of the Amis; with words as his weapon and determination for the cause in his heart. They didn't know the other side of him; the side that didn't get enough sleep, occasionally doubted himself, and was incredibly stubborn.

It was his natural curiousness that had first drawn them together, after that first night at the Musain. He found her opinions intriguing, and she had for the first time found someone outside her family who was interested in what she had to say. For months they would meet and discuss everything from politics and philosophy to art and literature. Sometimes he would escort her home after meetings, or they'd simply walk around Paris, having discussions and getting to know each other. The realisation that her feelings for him ran deeper than friendship had taken her by surprise.

“Enjolras, I-”

“Sophie, Enjolras!” Jehan Prouvaire was walking towards them, carrying several thick, leather-bound books which he almost lost his grip on when he stopped in front of the pair. “What a wonderful coincidence to see you here!”

“Good day, Jehan,” Sophie smiled.

“Where are you off to?” Enjolras asked, reaching out to catch a book right before it fell from the poet's arms.

He took the book with a grateful smile. “To a poetry meeting. We're having a debate on Boccaccio's Decameron versus the Divine Comedy,” he added, his voice and face alight with excitement. “Would you wish to join me?”

Enjolras shook his head. “I must decline.”

Sophie smiled. “That sounds interesting, I'd love to come with.” She turned to Enjolras and laid her hand on his arm. “Thank you for coming with me, and for the talk.”

He covered her hand with his for a second before seeming to catch himself and stepping back slightly, letting her hand fall away. “Think nothing of it.”

Saying goodbye to his friends, Enjolras watched Sophie take Jehan's arm and as she laughed at something the poet said, a strange feeling fluttered somewhere in his stomach. It wasn't jealousy, but more a sense of longing. While he had meant what he said to Sophie about distractions, he knew his feelings for her ran deeper than anything he'd felt before. But it wasn't to be. She was a beautiful woman, she would undoubtedly draw the attention of many eligible men, all of them better suited for her than him. Shaking the thoughts from his head, he headed for an omnibus that would take him to Combeferre's flat. The medical student looked up at the sound of the door from his place at the desk, a half-dissected moth lying in front of him.

“I was not expecting you until later,” the medical student said, abandoning his experiment.

“I can leave and come back when you're done with that thing, if you'd prefer it,” Enjolras said wryly.

Combeferre chuckled. “No worries, I can continue later. How was Sophie?”

Enjolras sat on the only other chair in the room. “She was upset, and rightfully so. It's only been a few months since Joseph's death, after all.”

“There's something else bothering you.”

Enjolras feigned ignorance. “Then you know more than I.”

“You're skilled at many things, my friend, but lying isn't one of them.”

Enjolras averted his gaze to the glowing embers in the hearth. When he first realised his feelings for Sophie ran deeper than friendship and admiration, it was Combeferre he confided in. His childhood friend, who always steered him in the right direction with his calm and logical reasoning.

“It's been difficult not knowing what to say to her after the way we left things. You know I'm not exactly well-versed in matters of this nature.”

“I'd say that is a normal reaction, no matter how much or little experience one has had with women. Did she say anything about it earlier?”

“We both did.”

“And? For God's sake man, do I have to pry the words out of you?”

“It doesn't matter what was said, it's not the time for such affairs. There are more important things to focus on.”

“There is more than one path of life to walk, my friend. Do you not wish to-”

“No,” he interrupted. “If we succeed I will tell her, if not...” His blue eyes were dull as he looked back at his friend. “I won't burden her with grieving my death.”

Combeferre sighed. “I believe it's already too late for that.”

–

Life fell into a routine over the following weeks, and Sophie welcomed the familiar pacing of everyday life. She was offered the position as a seamstress at the shop on Rue Hermel in the days following her visit there, and although the pay was less than at her previous employment she enjoyed the work immensely. Her employer, Monsieur Foulon, was a kind and reasonable older man who never raised his voice in anger, and she fell into easy friendships with the other girls who worked for him.

In the second week of December, the Amis arranged a protest against the unsafe work conditions in the city's many factories following the death of two workers. Sophie watched with pride as Enjolras climbed on top of a cart to deliver his rousing speech to the cheers of workers and other people who had gathered. When the gendarme arrived she narrowly escaped being injured in the scuffle, but a few of the Amis wasn't as lucky; Bousset suffered a twisted ankle and a bloody lip and Feuilly and Courfeyrac both sported matching black eyes. The dandy also lost his hat in the commotion, which truth be told grieved him more than his black eye.

Christmas passed without much of a fuss; no one was going home for the holidays so the day was spent at a café, eating and drinking the day away. Jehan read a poem which had more than one person near tears and Bahorel and Grantaire gave a horrendous rendition of Dans cette étable that had them laughing until they cried.

“You'll come with us tomorrow night?” Musichetta asked as she and Sophie sat and mended shirtsleeves. It was the day before New Year's Eve, and there was a newly opened dance hall which Courfeyrac had roped several of the others into going to with him.

“Yes, of course. Who else is joining us?”

“Henri and Courfeyrac, obviously. Grantaire said he might meet us there, so I suppose he already has plans. Combeferre wanted to come as well, and he said he'd try to convince Enjolras to join us. Lord knows that boy is working too hard, he needs to come out and have some fun.”

Focusing her attention back on her work, Sophie couldn't help but silently agree. When the bells from the Saint-Sulpice struck five o'clock, the two women stood from their positions. Sophie stretched out her sore fingers and started clearing the workspace for the day. “Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?”

Musichetta nodded. “Henri said there's no meeting tonight though, so we may even leave early for once.”

Laughing, Sophie put on her pelisse and scarf. “I don't believe we've ever left the Musain early, and why should we when there's good wine and good company?”

“Hear, hear!”

They said goodbye to Monsieur Foulon and left the shop arm in arm. The Latin Quarter was alive with activity; many cafés were starting to fill up with patrons as workers got off their shifts. Crossing the street Sophie saw a familiar face; the Lieutenant she had met at the Jardin du Tuileries almost a month earlier. His face lit up with recognition as they halted in front of him.

“Mademoiselle, what a pleasant surprise.”

“Bonjour, Lieutenant.”

He turned to Musichetta and gave a curt bow. “Forgive my rudeness, Mademoiselle. Lieutenant Léon Bouchard, at your service.”

She smiled. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm Musichetta Vallee. I didn't know you were acquainted with my friend here.”

“We've met only briefly,” Sophie explained. She didn't like the look on her friend's face, and hoped she wasn't about to do anything stupid.

Bouchard looked back to Sophie. “So briefly I never learnt your name, Mademoiselle. Would you oblige me?”

“I'm Sophie Guilhon.”

“Are you familiar with Le Perchoir, Lieutenant?” Musichetta interrupted, and despite the dread filling her, Sophie had to hold back a chuckle. Subtlety had never been her strong suit. “We will be there tomorrow night to celebrate the New Year, perhaps we shall see you there?”

His moustache twitched as he smiled. “Perhaps, if duty does not call me away elsewhere.”

Sophie forced a smile on her face. “It was lovely meeting you, Lieutenant, but we must be going.” She practically dragged Musichetta down the street. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she clenched her jaw. “What was that good for?” she asked when they were out of earshot.

“I'm quite sure I don't know what you're talking about,” Musichetta fired back, voice light with good cheer.

“That was very untoward. I don't even know him!”

“Does that mean you can't get better acquainted? He's a fine looking man and you need some romance in your life, Sophie. I'm not proposing marriage, only conversation and maybe a dance or two.”

Sophie snorted. “You'd have us married by Easter, I've no doubt.”

Musichetta only grinned in response.

The back room of the Musain was packed, which was usual. An unusual sight was the sight of Bousset holding back an angry Jehan, who was so red in the face he matched Bahorel's favourite waistcoat, and a student Sophie didn't remember the name of screaming curses at him. Despite the uncharacteristic behaviour from the poet, the lack of responses from the rest of the room told her it wasn't a serious argument.

“This is a welcome sight,” Sophie quipped, hanging her pelisse on the coat stand before joining a table where Courfeyrac and Feuilly were playing dominoes, and Enjolras was deep in a discussion with Joly.

The fan maker smiled at her. “Bonsoir, Sophie. I didn't hear you come in.”

“Do I want to know what's going on there?” She motioned over to where Jehan and the student were now talking in a more civilised matter, although Bousset looked ready to step between the two men again if necessary.

“Artistic differences.”

“We had an interesting encounter on our way here,” Musichetta said as she sat at the table, and the tone of her voice caused all occupants to shift their focus to her.

Courfeyrac raised his brows when Sophie's cheeks flushed. “This sounds promising,” he grinned.

“We ran into an acquaintance of Sophie's, a Lieutenant Bouchard.”

Whistles and jeers sounded at the table, and Feuilly nudged Sophie's arm so forcefully she spilt her wine. Only Enjolras and Joly had the tact to not join the teasing. The medical student looked mostly amused by the tone at the table, grinning as he smoked his pipe.

Wiping her hand on her skirt, rolled her eyes. “He is only an acquaintance, and barely that.”

“We'll see about that tomorrow,” Musichetta laughed.

Courfeyrac turned to Enjolras, his cheeks pink and warm. “What of tomorrow then, fair Apollo? You'll be joining us for the festivities, I hope. It would be cruel to deprive the young ladies of Paris of your beautiful statue.”

Enjolras looked unamused by his friend's drunken ramble. “Don't call me that. I've not yet decided on tomorrow.”

“You should join us,” Joly said. “There are many reasons to celebrate the birth of a new year.”

Courfeyrac raised his glass in a toast and slung his arm around Sophie's shoulders. “For the wine, women and song if nothing else!”

“I'll leave that to you, my friend,” Enjolras said dryly. “I'm afraid none of those things fit my character.”

Sophie met his eyes briefly before she looked back at the drunken dandy and shrugged his arm off. “Wine, women and song are what you do best, Courf. Well maybe not the song, you have a terrible singing voice.”

He gave an exaggerated gasp, green eyes wide. “Oh, the insult! You'll never get a husband if you don't watch your tongue.”

Sophie groaned. “Are you and Musichetta conspiring against me?”

“Hmm, am I what?” Musichetta turned her attention away from Joly at the mention of her name.

“A conspirer,” Courfeyrac grinned. “To save fair Sophie from spinsterhood.”

“I hardly think spinsterhood starts at twenty-four.”

“Thank you, Joly,” Sophie said. “It's good to know someone is on my side.”

“I am on your side,” Musichetta said. “I just also happen to want you to be as happy as I am.”

“As if any man would want a bluestocking as a wife.” The voice was low but still audible.

At the next table over two students had been listening in on their conversation. The one who had spoken evidently hadn't counted on his comment being heard by anyone but his friend, and now found himself the subject of seven pairs of icy stares. He showed no sign of shame for his statement, meeting their stares with a raised jaw. Sophie's cheeks flushed with equal part embarrassment and anger. 

Before she could speak, Courfeyrac stood swiftly, his chair toppling over by the force. “You piece of-”

“Étienne!” Sophie said sharply, the use of his first name making him halt. “Don't.”

“That was untoward and out of line,” Enjolras said coldly, and the student squirmed under the blond leader's intense gaze. “Citizeness Guilhon is a friend and an ally to our cause, and I will not tolerate such comments. Understood?”

Disgruntled, the student nodded grimly.

“I need some air,” Sophie said, standing. She felt as though all eyes were on her as she walked out the back door and down the steps which lead to Rue des Grés.

The narrow street was empty and the cold wind was refreshing on her flushed cheeks. She leant back against the brick wall and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply as she tried to calm herself. The sound of the door to the Musain opening reached her ears, the sounds of revelry becoming louder and then diminishing as the door closed again. Footsteps coming down the stairs and a deep sigh filled the air. She opened her eyes to see Enjolras, half-obscured by darkness.

“Are you alright?”

She shrugged. “I'm fine. It's hardly the first time such a comment has been made in my direction, nor do I suspect it will be the last. I've learned to simply ignore it, though I admit it's not always as easy as it sounds.”

“Nevertheless, the remark should not have been made.”

“I can't say I disagree with you.”

A comfortable silence spread between them, the kind that comes when two people know each other well. Dark as it was, Enjolras found it easy to study her without appearing to be outwardly staring. A few locks of hair had escaped the pins and was blowing around her face, and there was a glow to her complexion which could only partly be explained by the intake of wine. Her blue work dress was simple, and though he knew nothing about women's fashion, nor did he particularly care to, he couldn't deny the colour suited her well. Watching her as he was, he noticed when she shivered.

“Shall we go back inside?” he suggested.

She pushed herself off the wall and nodded. “I feel considerably calmed down, albeit a bit embarrassed.”

“It's they who should feel embarrassed, not you.”

She smiled and mumbled a quick 'thank you' as he gestured for her to walk up ahead of him. Taking a deep breath, he watched her for a second before continuing up the stairs. Maybe this was going to be more difficult than he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I only own my original characters, everything else belongs to Victor Hugo.

**Chapter 3**

Because New Year's Eve fell on a Saturday that year, the shop on Rue Hermel was open its usual hours from eight in the morning until two in the afternoon. At a quarter of an hour to two, Foulon let the young women in his employment leave early, along with their paychecks and a small end of the year bonus.

“Foulon has been awfully sprightly lately, do you suppose he has a new mistress?” Henriette giggled as they left. A beautiful girl of barely twenty with hair the colour of autumn leaves, she was sweet but immature and a terrible flirt.

“Can you imagine sharing a bed with him?” Sophie visibly shuddered.

“I'd rather not.” Musichetta looped her arm through Sophie's. “Have you decided which dress to wear tonight?”

“Perhaps the light green one, with the lace details. It's the best one I have, and Courfeyrac threatened to never speak to me again if I don't look my best.” She rolled her eyes, remembering the dandy's words. “Le Perchoir is, after all, the place to be tonight.”

Henriette's eyes lit up. “You're going to Le Perchoir?”

“Yes, with Musichetta's sweetheart and a few of our friends,” Sophie answered, silently hoping the younger woman wasn't about to invite herself to join them. While she enjoyed Henriette's company, her behaviour was sometimes grating.

“His student friends? Oh, I'm so jealous! To spend an evening with so many fine young men,” Henriette said, a dreamy smile adorning her face.

Sophie had to bite her lip to refrain from laughing at the look on Musichetta's face. Soon they reached the Place Saint-Sulpice, which was where the three women parted ways with wishes of a happy new year. Turning up on Rue Meunier, she saw her concierge on the stoop of the tenement, whipping the dust from an old rug. 

Madame Rossi looked up when Sophie approached, wiping the sweat from her forehead with a greying handkerchief. “Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Guilhon. I trust you are well?”

“Hello, Madame. I'm well, thank you. I have this month's rent for you, if you're not busy?”

She put down the broom. “Ah, good. Come with me and we'll get you sorted.”

Sophie followed her into the tenement and down the hallway to the concierge's flat. Handing the older women the five francs she owed for the month, she waited while Madame Rossi wrote the details of the payment in the leather-bound book she kept for such affairs.

“Right then, all done. You have a good New Year, Mademoiselle.”

Sophie smiled. “You too, Madame.”

Once in her flat, she went into the bedroom to put away the rest of her wages in the dresser. Hidden in the back of the bottom drawer was a wooden box in which she stored her most valuable possessions; the letters her brother had written her during his medical training, her meagre savings, and the few pieces of jewellery she owned. Putting away the money, she took out a necklace with a thin silver chain and a round, filigree pendant. It wasn't exactly fashionable, but a surge of longing came over her as her looked at it. The necklace had belonged to her mother, given to Sophie on her sixteenth birthday and only a few months before her mother's death.

Sophie washed off quickly in the small washing area, shivering when the cold water touched her skin. She applied a slight dusting of rogue to her cheeks and pinned her hair up in an elegant knot but allowed a few curls to be loose and frame her face. Elaborate hair containing both combs, hair rats and decorations was the height of fashion but she had neither the patience nor the skill for such styles. Once dressed she took a quick look at herself in the mirror to make sure she looked presentable. The cut of her dress was flattering, and the light green colour brought out the warm tones in her dark hair and the green in her eyes. It wasn't the latest fashion, but not horribly out of style. Her mother's necklace gleamed at the base of her throat, the only jewellery she wore. Perhaps Courfeyrac wouldn't be ashamed to be seen with her after all.

When she stepped into the hallway, the sound of footsteps made her look up. “Hello, Doctor Meyer. Are you on your way to the Necker?” She greeted her neighbour with a smile.

The older gentleman tipped his hat. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Guilhon. Yes, I'm on for the night shift. You are off to a celebration I assume?”

“How considerate of you. Yes, I'm meeting friends to celebrate.”

The doctor opened the front door and let Sophie go through first. It was snowing lightly, promising to cover the city in a soft blanket of white. “I wish you a lovely evening, Mademoiselle,” he said, closing the door behind them.

“And you too, Doctor.”

The walk to Musichetta and Joly's flat wasn't particularly long and Sophie was in no hurry; the light drizzle of snow was calming, washing away the grey and drab of the city in favour of a white blank slate. When she reached Rue Poupée, which was usually a quiet street, it seemed the promise of the New Year was bringing out the festive spirit in people, and the street was alive with activity. She found her friends already in the street, talking with a young man she didn't recognise. Musichetta noticed her first and tugged on Joly's sleeve to alert him before stepping away to meet her. The older woman was dressed in a fashionable puce gown that set off her olive skin and dark eyes perfectly.

“That colour looks lovely on you,” Sophie said after a brief greeting.

“Thank you, Sophie. You look lovely as well,” Musichetta smiled. “You'll not be wanting for dance partners tonight, I can guarantee that.”

They found an omnibus that would take them close to Le Perchoir, and as soon as they reached the establishment it was clear it was, as Courfeyrac had put it, the place to be. One side of the large hall housed the bar and dining section, while the other side was dedicated to dancing. A string quintet was currently playing a waltz and a fair amount of couples were already dancing. Despite the open windows it was practically stifling inside, and several ladies were fanning themselves furiously.

Sophie removed her bonnet and looked around for a familiar face. “How are we supposed to find the others in this crowd?”

Joly, being the tallest of the three, scanned the crowd. “I see Courfeyrac, he's at a table.” Hand clasped firmly in Musichetta's, he paved way through the crowd.

Courfeyrac stood up when they approached. “I was beginning to think you weren't coming. You would not believe what I had to do to keep this table, you should be grateful.”

”Thank you Courf,” Sophie smiled. “Are the others not here yet?”

“I haven't seen them.” He gave her a once over. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. You're looking more dapper than usual, is there a special lady you're hoping to impress tonight?”

“Only you, dear. It's good to see you, my friends,” Courfeyrac said as a way of greeting when Combeferre and Enjolras joined them. “And especially you, Enjolras! Now that we're all gathered, how about ordering dinner?”

“I met Doctor Meyer on my way here, he is working tonight,” Sophie said after they'd ordered food and a sufficient amount of wine and taken their place at the table. Both Combeferre and Joly knew her neighbour from the Necker, where they both worked extra shifts alongside their medical studies.

“I'm not at all surprised by that. He usually takes shifts around holidays or other celebrations,” Joly said, lighting his pipe.

“Doesn't he have any family?” Musichetta asked.

“He doesn't.” Sophie smiled in gratitude as Combeferre poured her some wine. “From what he's told me, his only living family is a sister in Germany.”

“That seems like a lonely life.”

“Perhaps in theory,” Combeferre shrugged, “though many physicians find satisfaction and a meaning in helping others. He takes those shifts so the doctors with families won't have to.”

Sophie nodded. “Have you read Comte's texts on positive philosophy? I think his views on altruism would interest you, especially when applied to the medical profession.”

“I've not read it in its entirety, but I find what I've read so far fascinating. Especially his theories about theology.”

“I find Comte boring,” Courfeyrac injected, and Sophie laughed.

“You find all philosophers boring.”

“I do not!” he protested, and turned to Enjolras. “Surely she is lying?”

“I'm afraid she is correct, or have you forgotten you fell asleep at Dubus' philosophy lecture last year?”

The dandy laughed. “I had forgotten about that. So philosophy is not my forte, you can hardly blame me for it.”

“I certainly do not,” Musichetta said.

“Of course not. You have many other amiable qualities that more than compensate for your lack of love for philosophy,” Sophie quipped, taking a sip of her wine.

“Such as?” Courfeyrac sat up straighter, never wasting an opportunity to get his ego boosted.

She shared a look with Musichetta and shrugged. “You have really good taste in hats?”

–

As the evening wore on their laughter became louder and their conversations more intense. Sometime after dinner, Joly and Musichetta abandoned their friends for the dance floor where their joyful dispositions and affection for each other didn't go unnoticed by anyone. A classmate of Enjolras', a young man by the name of Perrot, joined the table and it wasn't long until a heated discussion arose.

“No, no, that's not what I meant at all!” Combeferre cried. “What I'm trying to say is, how can people change their fortunes if the structures of our society are constantly holding them back?” Combeferre's cheeks were red with frustration, and Sophie didn't blame him. Perrot had turned out to be an unpleasant man; haughty, argumentative and with a conviction of always being right.

“Why should people change their fortunes?” he countered, lips curled into a twisted grin. “There will always be class differences, and they exist for a reason. The poor lack the mental capability to strive for a better life, which is why they become thieves, beggars or prostitutes.”

Sophie's cheeks flushed with anger but before she could answer him, Courfeyrac interrupted by standing and offering his hand.

“May I have the pleasure of the next dance?”

Glancing briefly at Perrot, Sophie took Courfeyrac's hand. “You may.”

“I don't know who was more likely to do that weasel physical harm, you or me,” he said when they were out of earshot.

She gripped his hand tighter. “Let's not find out.”

When the music for a quadrille started playing they took their place on the dance floor, Courfeyrac giving Sophie a grin and a wink. Sophie enjoyed dancing, especially with a skilled partner such as Courfeyrac, and they danced two dances together. She declined his offer for a third one, so Musichetta took her place instead. Going back to their friends with Joly, Sophie drew an audible sigh of relief when she noticed Perrot had left the table, and instead a familiar figure was sitting next to Combeferre. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said, claiming the seat next to Enjolras as Grantaire was occupying hers.

Grantaire raised his glass, swaying slightly in his chair. “Mademoiselle. Do you dare leave your sweetheart in Courfeyrac's hands?” he then directed at Joly. “He may try to sweep her away from you.”

The medical student waved his words away. “He would do no such thing. Besides, Chetta isn't the kind of girl who'd let herself be swept, least of all by Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire drained his glass and set it down on the table a bit more forcefully than necessary. “I wouldn't leave my woman with that man, he's a philanderer.”

“Can't you behave yourself for one evening?” Sophie scolded. “That's no way to speak of a friend.” At her words, he simply stood and left. She turned to her companions with a frown. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Do not blame yourself,” Combeferre reassured her. “He has been behaving oddly for days.”

“Excuse me for a second,” she said, standing and following after Grantaire. She found him at the bar ordering absinthe, and waited until he had the drink in his hand before speaking. “What's the matter? I'd like to think we are better friends than what you just displayed.”

He chuckled dryly. “Do not concern yourself with my affairs, it's a far too dreary subject for such a night.” With a small bow, he continued towards wherever he was going; leaving Sophie confused and alone. 

As she started walking back to the table, Courfeyrac approached her. His curls were slightly disarrayed, but his eyes were sparkling and his face was alight. 

She straightened his cravat with a smile. “Have you had your fill of dancing? Or perhaps you've simply run out of willing partners?”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Neither, but I am feeling rather parched, so I believe more wine is in order.” Suddenly the laughter died and his eyes widened. “Oh no.”

“What's the matter Courf, did you spot someone wearing last month's fashion?” she giggled.

He shook his head. “Do you see the blonde over there with the pink gloves? And the grisette she's talking to, with the large nose? I know them both. In the biblical sense, I mean.”

It took Sophie a moment to decipher his meaning, and when she did she groaned. “Oh, for the love of God. With the number of mistresses you've had, have you honestly never entertained the idea of any of them meeting?”

He was now, unsuccessfully, trying to hide behind a large potted plant. “No, I haven't. Have they seen me?”

She glanced over and found the two women in question had gone their separate ways. “No, they've gone, which is good for you. Who knows what they would have done if they'd spotted you.”

He visibly shuddered.

“Are you feeling alright? You look as if you've seen a ghost,” Joly remarked as they approached the table.

As she sat, Sophie's arm accidentally brushed against Enjolras' and her skin tingled. “Our Don Juan here saw two of his past mistresses talking, I think he's in shock. Perhaps you should bring out your smelling salts, Joly, we would not want him to swoon.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “That can't be the first time that's happened.”

Courfeyrac emptied his glass in one swing and grimaced. “The first of my knowledge at least.” He batted away Joly's attempt to wave smelling salts under his nose. “Stop that.” Refilling his glass again, he drank deeply. “Lord knows what they were talking about.”

“Perhaps this should be a lesson,” Combeferre said, taking the wine bottle away from Courfeyrac before he could take his third glass.

The dandy gave an exasperated sigh. “Can I help my love can't be contained to one girl?”

“You'll find yourself at the receiving end of a riot if you're not careful,” Enjolras said.

Sophie let out a short laugh. “I can see you running down Rue Saint-Jacques, chased by twenty grisettes and losing your hat in the midst of it.”

“Do not make jokes about such horrible things! Losing a hat is a serious grievance for any man.”

She patted his hand. “I'm sorry, dear. If that scenario does come to pass I promise to buy you a new hat.”

The boys continued to heckle Courfeyrac, and Sophie looked over at Musichetta, who had been uncharacteristically silent during the exchange. She remarked on this fact, and the seamstress smiled teasingly.

“I'm just enjoying the view of a certain Lieutenant making his way toward our table.”

Sophie's stomach clenched. “Is he really?”

The Lieutenant seemed like a nice enough man, but having him come over wasn't something she wanted. The business the Friends of the ABC were involved with was considered treason, and the last thing she wanted was to put her friends in jeopardy because the Lieutenant had formed some sort of attachment to her.

“Mademoiselle Guilhon, it's lovely to see you.”

All conversation at the table seemed to halt when the Lieutenant spoke. Sophie could feel Courfeyrac's eyes on her and knew he was no doubt grinning. She didn't dare look at Enjolras.

She forced what she hoped was a demure smile on her face. “Lieutenant, you made it after all.”

His moustache twitched when he smiled. “Yes, we were given leave to celebrate such an occasion.” He glanced from Sophie and around the rest of the table. “I hope I haven't disrupted your party?”

“No, not at all. You remember Mademoiselle Vallee, I'm sure, and these are Messieurs Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Joly.”

Bouchard bowed slightly in greeting. “Bonsoir.” His eyes rested a beat too long on Enjolras. “I feel as though we have met before, Monsieur Enjolras, but I can't for the life of me remember where.”

“I'm sure you have mistaken me for someone else, Lieutenant,” Enjolras answered shortly. He was sitting perfectly still, his demeanour reminiscent of the marble statue he was so often likened to.

“Perhaps there is a likeness to someone I know.” He turned back to Sophie. “Would you give me the pleasure of the next dance, Mademoiselle?”

She hesitated, not wanting to come off as rude. “Thank you kindly for the offer, Lieutenant, but I'm feeling a bit tired so I must decline.”

If he was disappointed he didn't show it. “I understand, Mademoiselle. I wish you a continued pleasant evening.”

“And the same to you.”

He was barely ten steps away when Joly leant over the table. “So that's the famous Lieutenant? Chetta has barely shut up about him since yesterday.”

“Why do you have to make such a fuss?” Sophie sighed, refilling her glass. “This is getting rather tiresome.”

Musichetta straightened her gloves. “Because you deserve happiness, to have a nice man in your life who values your opinions.”

“Are you implying I can't find happiness if I don't have a nice man who values my opinions?”

“I don't believe it to be so,” Enjolras cut in.

“No surprises there,” Courfeyrac mumbled into his glass, but Enjolras either didn't hear him or pretended not to.

Joly chuckled. “My friend, it's obvious you have never been struck by love's arrow. If you had, you would see it in another light.”

Sophie's cheeks burnt, and she hoped the others didn't notice. “I don't believe you should depend solely on another person to give you happiness.” She met Enjolras' gaze with her own unwavering one. Feuilly used to jest no one could hold up against Enjolras in a discussion, and there was no doubt the fanmaker was right. His intense gaze meant that keeping one's train of thought was sometimes a challenge. “It's risky, of course, to put yourself fully in someone else's hands, to give another person that amount of power over you.”

He leant forward slightly, head tilted to the side. “But?”

“Knowing there's someone in your life who loves and supports you no matter what is a powerful motivator, and it will make you strive to be a better person. Surely such a gift is worth the risk?”

His eyes softened.

Courfeyrac laughed loudly. “Don't bother trying to change his mind, Sophie. Enjolras' only love is Patria!”

A high bell sounded, marking it was ten minutes until midnight. Fireworks were to be lit from Place Dauphine, and the embankment offered an excellent spot for seeing them. Sophie smiled in gratitude when Enjolras helped her on with her coat and accepted the offered arm as they followed the others outside. It had stopped snowing sometime in the hours they'd been inside, and a thick coating of snow covered the Paris night. Huddled together as a group, it was Musichetta who spoke first, exclaiming a “Look!” as fireworks filled the sky. A warm feeling spread through Sophie's chest when she looked at the colours lighting the night sky. This was a moment which stopped time, that made the troubles of everyday life fade away. There was only there and now.

“Happy new year!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, gripping Combeferre's hand and placing a kiss on Musichetta's cheek at the same time.

Sophie's eyes found Enjolras', and she smiled. “Bonne année, Enjolras.”

His mouth turned up into a half-grin. “Bonne année, Citizeness.” His scent washed over her as he leant in. His hair tickled against her neck, and his breath was warm on her cheek as he kissed it softly. She pulled back first, hoping the chill in the air would mask her flushed cheeks. Musichetta called her name, and the moment was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and left kudos! Your encouragement means more than you know.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables, only my original characters

**Chapter 4**

Within a week the snow that had made the New Year a white one melted away, leaving Paris in a state of grey skies and cold winds. This didn't bother Sophie as she walked through the Jardin du Luxembourg; although it was grey and dreary, the air was crisp and fresh and put her in good spirits. Today was Feuilly's birthday and she was on her way to the Musain, for Courfeyrac had insisted a celebration must be thrown in the fan maker's honour. As she exited through the St. Michel gate, a familiar figure appeared in her line of vision and she smiled.

“Monsieur Pontmercy, what a pleasant surprise.”

Marius looked surprised to see her, but smiled and tipped his hat at her. “Mademoiselle Guilhon, good day.”

She noticed he was wearing his best clothes, worn and threadbare they may be, and frowned. “Aren't you going to the Musain?”

“I've just come from there. I regretfully have some place to be so I couldn't stay long.” Marius didn't look especially regretful over the missed party, but she didn't comment on that fact.

She huffed. “Oh, I'm that late aren't I?”

“No, not at all,” he assured her. “I was there early; you still have plenty of time.”

“Good. I should be going then, and let you continue to your appointment.”

They exchanged goodbyes and Sophie continued her way towards the Musain. The Place Saint-Michel was busy; early January saw the return of students from the Christmas holiday, and most shops and factories had closed for the day so the cafés were rapidly filling up with patrons. She was stopped by acquaintances so frequently she finally had to excuse herself before she became unforgivably late.

The back room of the Musain was filled with both familiar and unfamiliar faces, and much to Sophie's surprise she spotted Henriette talking with a couple of young men she didn't recognise. She approached the table where Feuilly was sat with Bahorel, Jehan and two young men she gathered by their caps and paint-stained hands were artisan friends of Feuilly's. The man of the hour was wearing a ludicrous looking hat she recognised as Jehan's and even though it made him look truly ridiculous, his smile was wide.

“Happy birthday, Gabriel,” Sophie smiled as she leant down and kissed his cheek. “I love the hat.”

His cheeks burnt. “Thank you, Sophie. The hat was Courfeyrac's idea.”

She let out a bright laugh. “I'm not surprised in the slightest.” Accepting a glass of wine from Bahorel, she said a quick 'thank you' before going over to where Musichetta and Joly were sitting.

The pinched look on Musichetta's face disappeared when Sophie sat down. “I'm so happy to see you.”

“Why is Henriette here?” Sophie's voice was low as her eyes followed the younger woman's form. Henriette was giggling and drinking, and Sophie had to hold back a snicker at Combeferre's flustered face at Henriette's antics. The medical student looked practically panicked and hastily excused himself away to another table.

Musichetta scoffed. “Henri and I met her on our way here, and she asked if we'd mind her coming with. I didn't have the heart to say no, but I'm starting to regret that now.”

“Perhaps we should talk to her,” Sophie suggested as Henriette leant against the table Enjolras was occupying. “She's making a fool of herself.”

An unwelcome feeling of satisfaction came over her at Enjolras' reaction to Henriette's flirting. He was holding himself stiffly, the look on his face one usually reserved for Grantaire's drunken ramblings or annoying discussions, and his eyes were downcast.

“She's wasting her time there,” Musichetta commented as the redhead moved away from Enjolras. “I've known Enjolras for almost four years, and I've never seen him pay much attention to any woman. The most I've seen him spend time with a woman is you.”

Sophie made a non-committed sound of agreement and took a sip of wine to avoid having to answer. Despite being her closest friend, she had told Musichetta nothing of her history with Enjolras. In fact, the only one who knew about it was Combeferre. 

She relaxed when Courfeyrac joined them at the table. “How nice of you to throw this party for Feuilly,” she said, happy to have a change of topic.

“Of course.” Courfeyrac straightened his cravat and smiled. “He never got any parties when he was little like the rest of us, so he deserves a celebration. After all,” He stood and raised his voice to get everybody's attention, “where would we be without our Poland-obsessed artisan? Richer probably, he's unbeatable in a card game.” Laughter rang through the room, and Bahorel clapped a flustered Feuilly hard on the back. “All in all, it matters not that you take our money because what we get back from you is worth so much more. To our dear brother! Santé!”

A chorus of santé echoed in the room as all raised their glasses for the toast.

“À la tienne,” Feuilly replied through a smile, clearly moved by Courfeyrac's words.

The rest of the evening was spent in celebration with drink and good cheer flowing freely. Jehan played the flute and was accompanied by another student on the small piano in the corner, which was usually only used as a surface for papers and maps. Together they played lively songs that encouraged dancing even though the room didn't have enough floor space for such a thing. Sophie twirled around in a dance with Feuilly, giggling and trying to avoid bumping into the furniture or other people, and Bossuet tripped over Musichetta's skirts and fell into Joly's lap.

A while later Sophie took refuge by one of the windows that had been thrown open early in the evening, cheeks warm with drink and exertion. The January air was cooling on her face and neck as she surveyed the room. All were in good cheer, and even Enjolras had a smile on his face as he conversed with Jehan and Bossuet. It was almost as rare as a sober Grantaire, but oh, what a beautiful sight it was.

Sometimes it was difficult to remember, with the late night meetings talking strategies and gatherings arms, that most of them were little more than schoolboys. Idealistic, full of life and with a conviction of making France a better place for the less fortunate. She'd never admit it out loud, but she had her doubts about a successful revolution. She hoped for it and wanted it with every fibre of her being, but she wasn't sure it would come to pass.

“You're looking too glum for such a celebration.” Combeferre's voice pulled her from her thoughts as he came to stand next to her. “Don't let Courfeyrac see you in such a state, he has ordered all must be happy tonight.”

She put on a smile, trying to banish her pessimistic thoughts. They would do her no good, especially not on a night like this. “I am happy. My mind just drifted for a moment.”

Combeferre chuckled. “Ah, the perils of the brain. I'm afraid there is no cure for that.”

She glanced back to her friends, eyes seeming to seek out Enjolras automatically. Their eyes met briefly, and he nodded in acknowledgement.

“Sometimes I wished there were,” she admitted, shifting her gaze from the room to the man at her side. Combeferre had been the first of the Amis she'd met, introduced to her by her brother when she'd only lived in the city for a few days, and it hadn't taken them long to become friends due to his calm demeanour and philosophical mindset.

He smiled gently. “As do I. But now is not the time for such thoughts. Come, let us rejoin the festivities.”

–

A mellow atmosphere filled the shop at Rue Hermel the next morning; both shop girls feeling weary from the festivities of the previous night. Musichetta had, against her better judgement, accepted a glass of absinthe from Grantaire and was now regretting that decision.

“Do I even want to know what happened after I left?” Sophie eyed her friend, who was looking rather pale.

“Honestly I don't remember much,” Musichetta groaned, rubbing her temples to try to relieve her headache. “Feuilly left not much longer after you did and so did most of the workers, but many of us stayed late. I remember Henri and Bossuet playing cards, but I think I may have fallen asleep at the table. I'm never accepting a drink from Grantaire again.”

Sophie stroked her friend's back. “I could have told you that before yesterday. Why don't you make us some tea? I can handle the shop, it's a slow morning.”

While Musichetta went to put on the tea, Sophie leant back against the counter and looked out the window. It was truly miserable outside; a thunderstorm had rolled over the city sometime during the early hours of the morning and the rain was falling so thick you couldn't see much at all. The door opened, bringing the smell and sound of the pouring rain into the shop.

“You're late,” Sophie said as a greeting.

Henriette was barely containing a smile as she pulled off her pelisse and gloves, shutting the door behind her and taking care not to get any of the interior wet. “I know, I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

“You're looking cheerful,” Musichetta said, coming out to the front of the store carrying a tray with a steaming teapot and two cups which she put down on an empty counter. “You were enjoying yourself last night, I noticed.”

“I had a wonderful time, Musichetta, thank you for inviting me,” she gushed. “And how welcoming all were! I felt right at home.”

Sophie and Musichetta shared a look, and then Sophie spoke. “Was there anyone in particular who caught your eye?”

Henriette blushed, fiddling with the buttons on her pelisse. “They're all fine young men, don't get me wrong, but my affections lie elsewhere.”

Musichetta's mouth fell open in shock, but she quickly caught herself. “You have a secret sweetheart you've not told us about?”

“Yes, he's in the military,” Henriette answered, a dreamy look in her eyes. “We've been seeing each other for about a month now. He's a respectable man, and very handsome.”

“When will we meet this sweetheart of yours?” Sophie inquired.

The door opening interrupted the conversation, and all three girls stood a bit straighter when Foulon came into view. “Good morning ladies,” he said, shaking the water from his hat. “God awful weather we're having,” he continued without waiting for a response.

“Yes, it's frightful,” Musichetta answered, taking a sip of her tea.

“Madame Bernard is coming in later today with her daughter for the final fitting of the daughter's wedding dress, and I want all three of you to work with them. I don't need to remind you that she's one of our most valued costumers, so turn on the charm. And could someone please mop up this water before the fabrics get wet?”

As the door to his office shut behind him, Musichetta groaned. “I have no patience for dealing with Madame Bernard today. She's such a snob.”

Henriette hummed in response. “She always looks disapprovingly at my hair; as if I can help I was born with red hair.”

“It's not only you,” Sophie quipped in. “She looks at everyone as though they are inferior. It proves that manners can't be bought, nor does it come automatically with belonging to a higher social class, as some people think.”

Musichetta looked at her pointedly. “You've been spending too much time with Enjolras; you're starting to sound like him now.”

Going to fetch a mop, Sophie fought back a smile.

\--

“Enjolras!”

The blond leader halted at his name being called, and turning he saw his bespectacled friend walking briskly in his direction. Once by his side, Combeferre stopped and tried to calm his breathing.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asked, noticing Combeferre's askew cravat and flustered demeanour.

The medical student waved his words away. “Yes, yes, I'm fine. Are we going to the Corinth?”

“Yes,” Enjolras confirmed and the two started walking. “The workers Feuilly's been talking only agreed to show if we met at the Corinth. They should arrive within the hour.”

Combeferre snorted. “Artisans.”

When they arrived at the Corinth they found most of their friends already engaged in conversations and games of dominoes and cards. They had barely sat down before the door burst open and Courfeyrac stumbled in. He looked far from his usual put together self; his bloody nose had stained his cravat, which was torn, and he threw his hat on a table with excessive force.

“What's happened to you?” Bahorel asked, putting down his cards and leaning back in his seat.

Combeferre guided the clearly agitated Courfeyrac to a seat and ordered him to tip his head back while he examined his nose. “I don't think it's broken,” he said after some prodding, which made Courfeyrac wince.

“Thanks,” the dandy muttered, holding a handkerchief to his bloody nose.

Jehan picked up the buckled hat and tried to straighten it out, but to no avail. “Your hat is ruined,” he said softly, brushing some dust from the ruined garment.

“I don't care!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, slamming his hand down on the table and making Joly jump. The room seemed to stop as the others looked in disbelief at him. Although he had a passionate disposition, it was rare for the charming young man to lose his temper in such a way.

“What's happened?” Enjolras asked calmly.

Courfeyrac leaned forward in his seat. “I was on my way here when I saw some thug,” he spat out the word, “harassing a young gamine, trying to pull her into an alley.”

Silence filled the room. All men present knew what could happen in some alleyways; those people disappeared into and got robbed, raped or beaten, and sometimes all three.

It was Joly who broke the silence. “Did no one come to her aid?”

“I did,” Courfeyrac said, nursing his sore jaw where the thug had gotten in a good punch. “He gave a good fight but I managed to subdue him long enough for the gendarme to arrest him. The gamine ran away before I could talk to her. I hope she wasn't hurt.”

“That was a gallant thing you did,” Bossuet noted.

Courfeyrac waved away the comment. “Anyone here would do the same. It makes me so angry to see how the people of the street are treated, like they're not even human, like the filth underneath their shoes! How the rich ignore their existence, even the most desperate. How can they walk by a starving child and not lifting a finger to help? Ignore the way the people of France suffers for their own selfish reasons?”

“Well,” Feuilly's voice sounded from over by the door. All gazes were drawn to him and the half-dozen workers standing behind him, looking slightly stunned at the scene before them. “I believe that is as good an introduction to our cause as any.”

After a more thorough introduction was made for the workers and the rather impromptu meeting had ended, Combeferre took a seat next to Enjolras, who had his usual books and pamphlets surrounding him. “Have you spoken with anyone from Charles Jeanne's group lately?”

The blond leader shook his head. “Not for a couple of weeks, no.”

Combeferre wiped his spectacles on his handkerchief. “I ran into René Martin yesterday, he said some of its members aren't happy with this waiting. I fear they might do something rash.”

Enjolras swore under his breath. “I need to find Jeanne and talk to him. We cannot risk a failed revolution because we showed our hand too soon.”

Combeferre nodded in agreement. “That's what I told Martin. He said Jeanne is likely to be at Café Lamblin this evening, so we should find him there.”

A couple of hours later saw the two men entering Café Lamblin, scanning the crowd for the man they were looking for. The café was a popular place for intellectuals; journalists, lawyers, translators and the like, located on Rue Boucher. Spotting a group of journalists from Le National at a table, Enjolras nodded in greeting before he and Combeferre walked further into the café. They found Charles Jeanne alone at a table, writing furiously in a large notebook. The cross of July fastened on his coat glinted in the dim lights as he moved and he looked up when they stopped in front of the table.

Combeferre spoke first. “Do you mind if we join you?”

Jeanne gestured to the unoccupied chairs. “Not at all, please sit.”

“New pamphlets?” Enjolras gestured to the paper as he pulled out a chair.

Putting down his pen, Jeanne leaned forwards on his elbows. “Some new ideas, nothing interesting. It must be a matter of importance which has brought you here; you don't usually stray this far from the Latin Quartier for official business.”

“Apparently,” Enjolras said curtly, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “there are men in your ranks that are getting impatient. They want to act now, rather than later.”

Jeanne rubbed his chin. “The same news reached me only earlier today. I will address the issue with my men during tomorrow's meeting, make sure they understand they need to have patience.”

Enjolras nodded. “Good. We cannot risk moving forward prematurely. It could jeopardise everything.”

“Agreed. Any news among your men?”

The three revolutionaries spoke for a while longer, heads close together and voices low. Although a busy café wasn't the ideal place for matters of such a sensitive nature, the loud sound level meant they were less likely to be overheard. Jeanne left first, promising to send word if needed about the outcome of tomorrow's meeting. Not long after, Enjolras stood to leave and as he did he bumped his chair into someone passing behind him. Turning back to apologise, his eyes met familiar hazel ones.

“Citizeness Guilhon, I was not expecting to see you here,” his voice betrayed his surprise.

“What luck I bumped into you both!” Sophie's eyes shifted from Enjolras to Combeferre. “Are you also leaving? We are going the same way are we not?”

The medical student turned slightly pink. “Not I, I'm afraid. I'm heading to a friend in the Marais.”

“I'm going to the Latin Quartier,” Enjolras said. “There are no omnibuses this late though, would you mind walking?”

Sophie smiled. “Not at all, the fresh air will do me good.”

They parted ways outside the café; Combeferre walking away with a spring in his step which made Enjolras smile. It was good to see his friend happy.

“I didn't know Combeferre had a mistress,” Sophie remarked as they started walking.

“He doesn't talk about her much. I've only met her a handful of times, all of them by accident.”

“He's always been a private person, hasn't he?”

“Ever since I've known him, Citizeness,” Enjolras answered.

She let out a sigh. “We are friends, Enjolras, are we not?”

The question caught him off guard. “Of course we are,” was his automatic reply.

“Then you needn't address me so formally, at least not when we're alone. I believe we've passed that stage of formality, don't you think?”

Memories of soft hair under his hands flashed through his mind. “I daresay we have.” Clearing his throat, he decided to change the subject before they ventured into a conversation he wasn't ready to have. “May I ask why you were at Café Lamblin tonight? I've never known you to be there before.”

Sophie grinned, eyes bright with merry. “Do you presume to know all my secrets?”

Enjolras' face flushed with embarrassment. “I apologise, I didn't mean to assume.”

“It's all right, I was only jesting. Grantaire has told me Café Lamblin serves the best coffee in Paris, so I wanted to see if he was right.”

“And was he?”

“We disagree on many things, Grantaire and I, but not on what good coffee tastes like.” Something seemed to pass over her, and the merry disappeared from her eyes. “Was that Charles Jeanne you were meeting at Café Lamblin? I saw him as I arrived.”

“It was,” he confirmed. “Combeferre received troublesome news earlier today about some of his men which we needed to clear up.”

“I see,” she replied curtly, eyes downcast.

They crossed the street, turning up on Pont de Arts. The Seine lay calm and dark, covered here and there by floes which glinted white in the moonlight. Sophie stopped and turned to look out over the darkened city, shoulders slumping. Enjolras studied her profile for a second; the slope of her nose, her slightly parted lips and the curve of her neck. She turned to face him, and a strange feeling tore through his chest. There was a silvery glow on her face, making it appear almost white against the dark of her hair and coat, and her eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

“I miss Joseph,” she whispered.

He took a step closer, his boots brushing against the hem of her skirt. “As do I. We weren't the closest of friends, but I respected him deeply.”

Tears fell silently down her cheeks, streaks of silver in the moonlight. Without knowing why, and before he could stop himself, he reached out and brushed them away. Her skin was cold underneath his touch and her breath was warm on his hand. Despite the cold, a heat spread through his body. He let his hand fall back down, the limb suddenly feeling heavy. She looked away, as if embarrassed by her emotions. He stepped back, clenching his fists to stop himself from reaching for her again.

Looking back at him, the emotion in her eyes were veiled. “Shall we continue?” her voice was breathy. “It's rather cold out.”

She continued walking without waiting for an answer, but it didn't take him more than a few steps to catch up. Despite the cold, their pace was slow; both of them silently wanting to stay in each others company for as long as possible.

Once outside her tenement, they stopped. She smiled, and the merry had returned to her eyes. “Good night, Antoine.”

An unnamed emotion rushed through him. He could see in her face she was teasing him; using his sense of propriety against him with the use of his given name. His lips curled into a smile. “Good night, Sophie.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who is reading and leaving kudos! Would love some comments on how you're liking the story.  
> Warning for character death in this chapter.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables, only my original characters

**Chapter 5**

“I've not seen you in a while,” Courfeyrac said after placing their order. “How have you been?”

“Busy,” Sophie said, straightening her twisted glove. “I've been working double shifts the past weeks; two girls have been sick so we've been up to our elbows.”

He gave her a once-over. “You do look tired. Let's get you some coffee.” 

She rolled her eyes. “You're too kind.”

They were in the Café Voltaire, which was a usual place for some of the Amis to gather. The café was busy despite the early hour; most tables were occupied and the sounds of conversations and laughter filled the air. A server appeared with their order of coffee and a plate of pastries, and Sophie waited until he was out of earshot before speaking, voice lowered.

“Do you have any news from the Amis?”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “Not here. However,” he continued, voice rising to his normal level. “Some weeks ago I had the pleasure of gaining a roommate; a gallant former Bonapartist we all know and love.”

She frowned, eyebrows pulling low over her eyes. “Marius? Whatever for?”

“I don't know, to be honest,” he said, shifting his eyes to follow a waitress before looking back at Sophie. “I believe there was a robbery or attack of some sorts at his tenement, so I suppose he felt unsafe. I was happy to have him, but I must admit I've seen about as much of him these past few weeks that I have you.”

She brushed some pastry crumbs from her lap. “I've crossed paths with him at the Jardin du Luxembourg a few times, but he always seemed in a hurry.”

A slow grin appeared on Courfeyrac's face, showing the gap in his teeth where he had lost one of his premolars getting punched at a riot. “Perhaps our dear Marius has found himself a mistress?”

“I wouldn't think so, he's too much of a romantic.”

He patted her hand. “Sweet Sophie, you are one of the most well-read women I know, but your knowledge of men is sorely lacking.”

Chuckling, she took a sip of coffee. “So I've learnt nothing from being friends with you? How disappointing.”

“Well, no man is an island.”

Unwillingly her thoughts drifted to Enjolras; stoic and self-assured. If there was one man to be an island, it would be him. “My father used to say the best way to live a happy life was to find a good woman and agree to everything she said.”

He let out a loud belly laugh, slamming his hand down on the table and making the porcelain clatter. This caused several of those sitting closest to their table to jump in their seats and shoot him dirty looks. Sophie sat in silence, face speaking of bemusement as she waited for him to get his emotions under control. “He's not wrong, though.”

“In some aspects.” She glanced at her pocket watch. “I ought to be going, Foulon only gave me the morning off.”

“I should go too, I have afternoon classes,” he groaned.

“That's not a very enthusiastic view on the schooling your father pays a fortune for you to attend,” she teased as they prepared to leave.

Courfeyrac left enough money on the table to cover their order and stepped back to let her to walk ahead of him to the door. “You would feel as I do if you had to listen to Monsieur Dubus' lectures for an entire afternoon. The man is an imbecile.”

“Maybe I should go in your stead then,” Sophie said, buttoning her pelisse. “I'll just put on a pair of trousers and tuck my hair into a hat and none would be the wiser.”

He chuckled. “I can't imagine any man would be blind enough not to recognise a beautiful woman in a lecture hall, trouser-clad or not. I'll do my best to enjoy the lecture, for your sake.”

They parted ways, Courfeyrac going in the direction of the Sorbonne and Sophie finding an omnibus that would take her to the shop on Rue Hermel. Taking a seat, her eyes were drawn to a man standing not far from her. His sunken eyes were unfocused, and he was swaying on his feet as he coughed into a handkerchief. An unwelcome image of Joly listing off all sorts of infectious diseases and how contagious they were popped into her head.

Arriving at work, she found Musichetta in a frenzy.

“Today's been chaotic,” the older woman said, stretching out her back from where she was hunched over a workbench. “It's only been me and Claudine; Henriette never showed up this morning.”

“That's the third time this week,” Claudine remarked, not looking up from the fabric she was measuring and cutting. “Foulon is furious with her; if she doesn't come in for her next shift he's going to fire her.”

“Just what we need; fewer people working,” Sophie sighed. “We're going to get run into the ground if he doesn't hire more workers soon, especially with Louise and Margot still being sick.”

Musichetta pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sophie, you are very dear to me, but if you start off on the importance of fair labour I might scream.”

Sophie raised her eyebrows. “I wasn't about to, I assure you.”

By closing time it was clear they needed more help in the shop, and fast. Plenty of the day's orders were still unfinished, and Sophie rubbed her sore neck.

“There is a young man outside the door, does he belong to any of you?” Claudine said.

Looking out the shop window, Sophie recognised Joly's brown coat and pleasant face. When their eyes met he raised his cane in greeting, and she smiled. She watched as Musichetta joined her lover, kissing his cheek before the two walked away.

“You can go ahead home, I'll clean and do the locking up,” Sophie offered, turning back to Claudine.

The seamstress looked relieved, and she brushed back a piece of hair from her face. “Are you sure? I don't mind staying, it will get the work done faster.”

“I'm sure. Go home to your family.”

Claudine smiled and stepped forward to clasp her hands. “Thank you, Sophie. I'll do the closing for you tomorrow, I promise.”

“That's all right. Now go, and tell your husband I said hi.”

Once she was alone, Sophie started cleaning the store; putting back bolts of fabric in their rightful places, disposing offcuts, and sweeping the floors. She had just finished when a knock on the shop door made her jump. Trying to calm her racing heart she made her way over to the window to get a look at who was outside. A familiar gamin stood on the other side, casually eating a pastry, and she sighed in relief. Unlocking and opening the door, she leaned against the door frame.

“Hello Gavroche,” she smiled.

“Evenin'. I've a message from the Chief; a meeting at 7 tomorrow, at the usual watering hole.”

She handed him a couple of sous for his trouble. “Thank you. Have you had supper yet? A proper supper,” she added when he motioned to the pastry in his hand.

“Yeah, Grand R bought me beef stew.” He jerked his head impatiently. “I'm off. Bye!”

He disappeared down the street before she could say anything else, and she smiled to herself as she stepped back inside and locked up. They were an odd pair, the gamin and the drunkard. Grantaire, despite his cynicism, was surprisingly protective of Gavroche, who in turn accepted an offered roof over his head every now and again. Her heart broke a little every time she saw the children that lived on the streets, begging for scraps and with nowhere to go when darkness fell. They were not all as cocky and seasoned like Gavroche, and many didn't survive a harsh winter. Soon after she'd moved to Paris, she had encountered a mother and her child frozen to death one cold January morning, and it had been her first encounter with the unfairness of the citizens of Paris. She had cried for almost a full day over their cruel fate, and had come out of it more determined to the cause than before.

Taking one last glance around the shop, Sophie exited through the back door and made her way home.

–

The following day saw the shop as busy as the day before and true to her word, Claudine took charge of the closing up. Sophie took a few minutes to freshen up before leaving for the Musain. She was early, the church bells hadn't even rung for vespers yet, so she was surprised to see Enjolras sitting at his usual table. He rose when she approached, face speaking of surprise.

“I didn't expect anyone else to be here yet,” she smiled, removing her bonnet and smoothing her hair.

“Nor did I. I thought I'd get some work done before the masses arrive. It can be hard to concentrate when the lot comes in,” he admitted with a sheepish grin.

“Oh, I'm not interrupting I hope?” She glanced at the mountain of books and papers strewn over the table.

“No, not at all,” he reassured her.

“Good. I'm going to order supper, I'll try to be quiet as not to disturb you.”

She came back carrying a plate with a double portion of brioche, brie, and fruits and took care to move some books out of the way in order to set the plate down next to Enjolras.

Glancing up from his writing, he raised his eyebrows. “What's this?”

She cut off a piece of brie and put it on the brioche. “Dinner. I know how wrapped up in your writing you can get, but you need to eat. Are you working on another speech?”

He shook his head. “It's a paper for one of my classes. I seem to be lacking the motivation to actually finish the damned thing though,” he sounded annoyed at this, and Sophie had to fight the urge to smile. He was a perfectionist to the core.

“For any particular reason?”

Enjolras hesitated, using the pause to help himself to some of the food. “What's the point?” he said at length. He looked troubled by this admission, eyes flickering to the door before settling back on her face. “What difference does it make if I finish this paper? It won't help us in our revolution, it won't end the injustices in France.”

“Maybe directly it won't, but your education is important,” she said calmly. “Being a lawyer will allow you to make a difference in a way that a revolution can't. You'll be able to use your power to make new laws that will make the progress a more durable one. A bloody revolution is a short-term solution for long-term problems.”

He chuckled. “That sounds like something Combeferre would say. Revolution but civilization.”

Sophie put her hand on his arm reassuringly. “No one expects you to always know what to do. You're allowed to have doubts, it's only human.”

“Haven't you heard, I'm made of marble,” he said tersely.

Her fingers tightened on his arm. “You know they don't mean it. Leader and Chief you may be, but you're also their friend. They wouldn't think any less of you if you spoke up about these feelings.”

He covered her hand with his own. “Were you always this insightful?”

Her cheeks burned at the compliment, and her eyes shifted to his hand on hers where his thumb was slowly drawing circles on her skin, causing a heavy feeling in her stomach. She let out a shaky breath as she lifted her head and met his eyes. Their piercing blue had darkened, an intensity in them which made her breath hitch.

The sounds of footsteps and laughter reached them, and they practically flew apart seconds before the door burst open and Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel entered. Joly glanced from Enjolras to Sophie, who was on her feet.

“Bonjour. Are you feeling unwell? You look flushed,” he directed at Sophie.

Sophie shook her head, trying to arrange her expression into a neutral one. “No, I'm fine. It's hot in here though, isn't it?”

As the rest of Les Amis trickled in she took care not to look in the blond leader's direction. If she did, she was sure her face would betray her feelings in an instant. She found a welcome distraction in Jehan, who had several new poems he wished for her to read. Once everyone had arrived and the back room was full, Enjolras stepped up on a table. At once the room quieted down as everybody's attention turned to the leader, including Sophie's. He looked glorious up there, filled with passion and with fire in his eyes.

“Friends, let's start the meeting!” He surveyed the room before speaking. “We must get our new pamphlets printed and distributed soon. Feuilly, your friend with the printing press, is he willing to help us again?”

“He might need some convincing,” the fan maker replied. “Since the last time he printed for us he's had the gendarmes visit his shop twice. He's afraid, and rightfully so.”

“We will find a way that won't put him or his shop in jeopardy,” Combeferre assured him.

Discussion arose about the best way to spread their message without getting arrested, and Bahorel and Courfeyrac got into such a heated argument they had to be physically separated before someone threw a punch. The argument only lasted a few minutes though, and soon they were drinking and laughing together again. Spirits were high that evening, and Enjolras struggled to keep the focus on the topic at hand. Sophie's eyes met his, and he gave a defeated shrug before stepping down from the table. It was clear the meeting was over for the evening.

Combeferre's voice caught her attention. “Sophie, how about a round of chess? It's been some time since we played.”

“I'd love to. I must warn you though, I haven't played in months.”

Combeferre smiled as he set up the chess board. “I haven't played in a while either, so we're even there.” He rotated the board and leaned back. “Ladies first.”

Sophie studied the board for a second before opening with a pawn, and a hand on her shoulder made her look up.

Courfeyrac grinned. “Checkmate him and I'll buy you a new hat.”

“I'll try my best. Are you leaving?”

He kissed her hand and winked. “Yes, my mistress calls.”

“Which mistress is he seeing this time?” Combeferre asked after the dandy had left, moving his rook three steps forward and taking one of her bishops.

She let out a low laugh. “I have no idea. I try not to get too involved in his personal affairs.”

“Wise choice.”

So focused were they on the game, that both Combeferre and Sophie were oblivious to the happenings of the room as they played. If they hadn't been, they might have noticed Jehan reciting a new poem for Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel, Grantaire drunkenly passed out in a corner, and Feuilly and Enjolras discussing the plights of conquered nations.

The door slammed open, causing Sophie to jump for the second time that night and knock over her knight. Musichetta stood in the doorway, face white as a sheet and her whole body trembling.

Joly was by her side in an instant, helping her to a chair and kneeling in front of her. “Chetta, what's wrong? Chetta!”

Sophie rushed over to her friend, stomach rolling. “What's happened?”

Musichetta's wide eyes met hers, brimming with tears. “It's Henriette,” she stammered. “She's dead!” with those words she burst into tears, covering her face with her hands as she sobbed.

“What?” Sophie gasped, clutching her midsection. “What do you mean? No, it can't be- what...” Looking up, Combeferre was by her side, holding her up. She was barely aware her knees had given out. Over the ringing in her ears she heard voices, muddled and far away.

“Here, sit her down.”

“Musichetta dear, what's happened with Henriette?”

“She's too shook up, Bossuet, don't push her.”

“You're the doctor in training, can't you give her something?”

“There's not much that I can do for shock, I think we just need to wait it out.”

“Can she hear us?”

Someone touched her hand. “Sophie.” It was Combeferre's calm voice. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” She tried to stand, but her legs were shaky and she found herself grasping warm hands for support. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears burning behind her closed eyelids but refusing to give in to them. “I need to go home, I want- I want to go home.”

“You're in no condition to walk home alone.”

“I'll make sure she gets home.”

There was a sigh. “All right. I'll speak with you in the morning.”

“Sophie?”

At the call of her name she blinked, eyes finding focus. Enjolras was standing in front of her, worry etched on his face. “Yes?”

“I'm walking you home. Come on.”

He helped her on with her pelisse and led her through the back door down to Rue des Grés. She breathed in deeply once they were outside in the night air and exhaled hard. Despite her warm pelisse, she shivered. They walked to her flat in silence, with her arm tucked securely in Enjolras' as he steered her in the right direction.

Once inside her flat, Sophie felt drained of all energy. Cold hands clasped her face, and her eyes once again found focus on the man in front of her. All at once it was like something inside her burst, and she started to cry; loud sobs that racked through her body and threatened to bring her to her knees. Within seconds, Enjolras wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against his own body. She was only faintly aware of him making hushing noises in her ear and rubbing his hand up and down her back. She cried until the tears stopped coming, by which time her throat was closed up and her eyes were raw. 

After a few minutes, she stepped back and wiped at her face with her hand. She looked away, not wanting to see the look of pity in his eyes. “I need a minute.”

“Of course.”

Tapping up water in the wash bin, Sophie splashed it on her face and neck. Meeting her reflection in the mirror, she took a deep breath to ready herself before going back into the kitchen. Enjolras sat by the table, hands folded in front of him and seemingly lost in thought. He had started a fire, and the dim light cast dark shadows on his face as he looked at her.

She joined him at the table and hesitated, unsure of how to start. “Do you know how she died?” she finally said, voice low.

His face was drawn as he spoke. “Citizeness Vallee said from poisoning, as a result of ingesting pennyroyal to terminate a pregnancy.”

Sophie gasped, hands covering her mouth. “Pregnancy?”

“You didn't know she was with child?”

Shaking her head vehemently, she bit back tears. “No, no, I didn't know.” She had heard of such herbs before; meant to bring on your bleeding and terminate an unwanted pregnancy, but she had no idea that these could be the consequences. A memory broke through her clouded mind. “A few weeks back, right after Feuilly's birthday, she spoke of a man she'd been seeing. I never learnt his name, but he's a military man. He must be the father. Do you think he knows about her death?”

Enjolras rubbed the back of his neck. “I do not know. There are hundreds of soldiers stationed in and around Paris, so finding him without a name would be impossible.”

Another grim thought entered her mind, making her sit up straight. It was fully possible that Henriette had told her sweetheart about the child, but he refused to do the right thing and take his responsibility. Could that be the reason for her going to such drastic measures? Sophie stood, unable to stay still as her thoughts overwhelmed her.

Stopping in front of the stove, a weight settled over her. “I can't believe Henriette is gone,” she said, mostly to herself. “How could she be so stupid?”

“People do desperate things when they feel they have no other choice.”

At his words, she spun around to face him, eyes blazing. “But she had another choice! Several, in fact.”

“Like what?” Enjolras' tone was calm as he studied her. “Giving birth to a child she had no financial means of supporting? Especially if the father wanted nothing to do with it. People aren't kind to unwed mothers, you know that. Her actions had dire consequences she didn't foresee, but we shouldn't judge her for them.”

She sighed deeply as she sat again. “I know you're right, but my friend is dead and I need to find something or someone to hold responsible.”

“I don't think you can. It was a tragic accident, there is no one to blame.”

Her eyes softened. “Were you always this insightful?” Her words, mimicking his from only a few hours ago, filled her with a weariness that set deep into her bones. “I need to talk about something else or I think I shall go mad. How are your parents?”

He seemed unfazed by the change of subject. “I've not spoken to them in a while, but last I heard they were well.”

“I'm glad to hear that. Are they still oblivious to what you do with your free time?”

“I wouldn't say oblivious, but I don't tell them more than I have to,” he said wryly. “There's no need to worry them without cause.”

She stifled a yawn.

“I should go, you need some rest.” Enjolras rose from the table, and she followed him to the door, where he paused. His eyes were worried as he looked at her. “Will you be all right on your own?”

Sophie nodded. “Thank you for walking me home, and staying with me. It means more to me than you know.”

He clasped her arm. “Think nothing of it. I'm truly sorry about your friend.”

Covering his hand with hers, she managed a smile. “Thank you, Antoine.”

The corners of his mouth curled upwards. “Good night, Sophie.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this story, please consider dropping a review.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables, only my original characters

**Chapter 6**

“You're unusually quiet,” Sophie said as she and Musichetta crossed the Place de l'Odéon. They had just come from Henriette's wake, arranged by the other girls in the dress shop. Henriette's parents had arrived the previous day to take their daughter back to Soissons for the funeral, so they'd held a private wake to pay their respects. “Are you thinking about Henriette?”

Musichetta twisted her bonnet string. “No, it's not that. Well, yes, I suppose it is, but still isn't.”

Stopping by the edge of the square, Sophie reached out to clasp her friend's arm. “Chetta, you're worrying me.”

Musichetta lowered her head, shoulders slumping. “About a year ago I used pennyroyal to terminate a pregnancy. I didn't tell you because, well, it's not something one speaks of, and I didn't know how to tell you. I don't regret it,” she added hastily, raising her head. “Neither Henri nor I were ready for a child. But now, with what happened to Henriette, I can't help but think how lucky I was that it wasn't me. It could have been me.”

Sophie grasped her friend's hands. “Oh, Musichetta, you can't think like that. What happened to Henriette was a tragic accident, and there's no use trying to find any rhyme or reason to it.”

“I suppose you're right.” They continued walking, and Musichetta sighed. “She's not the first girl I've known to die from such causes, nor do I suspect she's the last.”

Sophie's stomach clenched. “I didn't realise pennyroyal was that dangerous.”

“It's quite common among prostitutes, or so Henri tells me, but it's used by grisettes as well. Since moving to Paris I have known perhaps three or four girls who've gone the way Henriette did, and at least half a dozen more who have used pennyroyal successfully. You didn't know about it?”

“I'd heard of it, but I didn't know much of it,” she admitted. “As you said, it's not the sort of thing you talk about. But I'm glad you told me.”

The sound of drunken shouting startled them, and they were greeted by the sight of Joly walking towards them, supporting a drunk Bossuet. The former was red in the face with the exertion of holding his friend upright.

“What on earth are you doing?” Musichetta exclaimed, rushing forward to help her lover before he dropped Bossuet on his face.

“What splendid luck that I ran into you just now,” Joly panted, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. “Bossuet has misplaced his passkey so I offered to take him for the night since we live the closest.”

“I'm not giving up the bed for him, he can sleep on the floor,” Musichetta snapped, hoisting Bossuet's arm around her shoulder.

“Do you need help getting him home?” Sophie asked, but Joly shook his head.

“No, we can manage. Thank you anyway.”

Nodding, Sophie adjusted her gloves. “All right. Good night to you then. I hope poor Bossuet doesn't feel too bad when he wakes up tomorrow.”

“I daresay he will,” Musichetta huffed.

“Good night, sweet lady!” Bossuet boomed with a wide grin.

Sophie laughed. “Good night, Bossuet. I'll see you in the morning,” she directed at Musichetta before walking home, leaving her three friends in the Paris night.

–

Enjolras' brow was furrowed as he read the draft for his newest speech. It was less than satisfactory at the moment, but for some reason he couldn't get the right words out. A bright laugh drew his attention from his papers, and looking up he saw Sophie engaged in a lively conversation with Courfeyrac and Jehan. Her face was scrunched up in laughter, hand covering her mouth as she tried to catch her breath.

“You're staring, my friend.” Combeferre's low voice in his ear made him startle, and he quickly looked away. “Don't worry, I do not think anyone else noticed.”

“I would have a hard time explaining that one,” he replied, putting down his pen and rubbing his eyes. Looking back up, he raised his eyebrows at Combeferre's pointed look. “If you have something to say, please don't hesitate in saying it.”

Combeferre sat down and leaned forwards. “You can't pretend any longer that your priorities have not changed. You're just as devoted to our country and our cause as you've always been, but it is clear it's no longer your only priority. This is no bad thing,” he added. “The things we do, the people we love, only makes us stronger. It's what makes the fighting worth it.”

Enjolras felt heat travel up his spine. “I thought we were fighting for a better France?” he asked dryly.

“We are, but it's difficult to fight for a world you're not a part of.”

The words caught him off guard; such bluntness wasn't typical for Combeferre. “I don't know what that means.”

He gave a half-smile. “It means that for the past six years you've thought of nothing but the injustices of the people. You are the fiercest believer of the cause, but you've forgotten there is a life beyond the revolution. Think it over, my friend.” Combeferre squeezed his shoulder before leaving the blond leader alone with his thoughts.

It was some time later Enjolras left his table in favour of joining his friends, who were deep in discussion. He met Combeferre's eyes as he sat, and gave his friend a slight nod.

“There seems to be no way of stopping the disease from spreading, even the senior physicians don't know what to do,” the bespectacled medical student said.

“It's a curse,” Feuilly agreed. “An entire atelier on Rue Boutebrie fell ill last week, and last I heard only one of them has survived.”

“Do you think the rumours of the police poisoning the water supplies in the poor quarters are true?” Joly asked as he lit his pipe. “The Faubourg Saint-Antoine has been hit the hardest by the disease so far.”

“No one can know for sure, but it seems unlikely,” Combeferre said. “The disease has been too widespread, affecting people from all social standings. A surgeon at the Necker told me yesterday that the Rothchild's youngest daughter has caught the disease as well.”

“It seems to be only a rumour,” Enjolras agreed. “Probably one made up by people who distrust the government.”

“A couple of the girls at the shop caught it as well,” Sophie said, “and I also heard from Irma Boissy that half the workers at her shop are out sick. If this continues I fear there will be many businesses having to shut down.”

Enjolras looked to Joly. “You will keep us updated on any new developments at the Necker?”

He nodded. “Of course. We can only hope someone finds answers, and soon.”

–

Within a fortnight an epidemic was declared as cholera spread rapidly through the city. Several businesses had to close due to shortness of staff, and both Joly and Combeferre worked double shifts at the Necker alongside their medical studies to accommodate the increasing amount of patients. In contrast to the dampened atmosphere of the city, spring arrived early and by the second week of April, all the gardens were nearly in full bloom.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Sophie took a look around the shop. Since it was near closing time the shop was empty, and she busied herself with making a mental list of errands she needed to run later that day. Thursdays were her half-holiday, and with the weather being so fine she could afford to tarry a little before doing practical things. She startled when the door to the office opened, and tried to look busy as Foulon appeared.

He stopped short, clearly surprised to see her. “Mademoiselle Guilhon, what are you still doing here?”

Sophie hesitated, unsure of what he meant. “My shift isn't over yet, Monsieur.”

He made an impatient movement with his hand. “It's such a fine day out, you can go on home. I'll do the closing up.”

Not one to argue, she thanked him and headed to the back to gather her belongings. Whilst buttoning her pelisse, the bell over the door went off and Foulon greeted the new customer. The customer answered in a familiar voice that made Sophie smile. She hurried to the front of the shop and was greeted by the sight of Enjolras standing just inside the door, looking out of place and slightly tense. His demeanour softened when their eyes met.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur Enjolras. This is a pleasant surprise,” she said as she walked up to him. “Dare I guess you're not here to make a purchase?”

He chuckled. “You are correct. I'm here to see you actually,” he admitted, glancing over at Foulon. “If I'm not interrupting your work that is?”

She shook her head, aware that she was smiling a bit too widely. “No, not at all. I was just on my way out.”

Foulon all but ushered them out the door, and with the sound of the locking door behind her Sophie turned to Enjolras. The sunlight was catching in his hair, and she blushed at the sudden impulse to reach out and run her fingers through the golden strands. “Is there a particular reason for your coming to see me?”

A look she couldn't read passed over his face. “I did not know I needed a reason to see a friend.”

She clasped his arm. “Of course not, I'm always happy to see you. Will you walk with me? It would be a shame wasting such a fine day on being inside.” They halted to let a fiacre pass before crossing the street and heading for the Jardin du Luxembourg. “Is something the matter?” she said as they entered the gardens. “You seem tenser than usual.”

“Should I be worried you can read me so easily?” he asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You are right, though. I've just come from a meeting with the artisans at the Barrière du Maine, a meeting I only had to make because Grantaire failed to complete the task appointed to him.”

Sophie sighed. “He never went?”

“He did, but instead of doing what he was supposed to he spent his time drinking and gambling. It's a good thing I was able to rectify the situation; we need all the allies we can get.”

Sophie wrung her hands. “Are there anything I can help with? I don't know much about making ammunition and things like that, but there are other things I can do.”

He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Your help, whatever it may be, is always welcomed.”

They veered off from the main promenade to a smaller path, lined with large trees and fragrant rose bushes. Despite the fine weather, this corner of the gardens was practically deserted. Sitting on a stone bench, Sophie turned her face up to the sun with a content sigh. She could feel Enjolras' body beside her, his leg against her skirts and the occasional grazing of his arm against her shoulder.

“This is nice,” she said at length, shifting slightly towards him. “It certainly feels like there are no troubles in the world when you come here.” She cocked her head when she noticed Enjolras was looking at her rather intently. “Did I offend the cause by forgetting the plights of the people?”

His cheeks reddened slightly, and he chuckled. “Of course not.” There was a different look in his eyes now, one of determination. “Do you recall the conversation we had back in December at the Place Vendôme?”

Her stomach dropped. “Yes, I do.”

He clasped her hand. “I have realised lately that my words that day do not reflect how I feel.” He looked at her earnestly, as if willing her to understand what he was about to say. “The regard and affection I have for you runs much deeper than I've allowed myself to admit.”

She smiled as a warmth spread through her chest. She adjusted her grip, slipping her fingers in between his. “My feelings for you have not changed, Antoine.”

A beautiful smile spread across his face as a tension left his body, as though he'd finally let go of something heavy weighing on him. He kissed her hand chastely, mindful that they were in public.

She no longer felt any apprehension in his presence, only a sense of calmness and relief. “What will we do now?”

“I'm not sure,” he admitted. “I'm not exactly well-versed in these kinds of affairs.”

Sophie laughed. “Neither am I.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, fingers lingering on her cheek for a beat or two. “It's been a long time coming, getting here. Jehan would call it poetic, I believe.”

Sophie looked at their joined hands. “Would you mind terribly if we kept this to ourselves, just for a while? I don't feel ready to tell our friends yet.”

Enjolras placed a finger under her chin, coaxing it up so she'd meet his eyes. “There is no shame in wanting to keep things private, Sophie,” he assured her.

“It means I get to have you for myself for a while, and that's never a bad thing,” she said with a smile.

He matched her smile. “That is true. I really wish I didn't, but I need to go. I hadn't planned on doing this today; if I had, I'd made sure my afternoon was free.“

She squeezed his hand. “Walk me home?”

Once inside her flat, Enjolras lingered by the door. Now their feelings were out in the open, it felt much more intimate being there. Outside they were bound by the rules of society but inside the flat, there was only them and no one was watching.

“You'll be at the Musain later?” she asked, removing her pelisse and putting her bonnet on the table.

He stepped forward, stopping just behind her. “From around six.”

She turned to face him and smiled. “Good. I have some errands to run this afternoon, but I'll be there.”

His bright blue eyes darkened, making her breath hitch and her stomach clench pleasantly. He cupped her face gently, stepping in closer and tilting her face up before pressing his lips against hers gently. Her heart was beating so hard it she feared it would burst out of her chest. She became lost in the feeling of his soft lips on hers and his hands on her skin, and an involuntary whimper left her mouth when he pulled back.

“I hope that wasn't untoward?” he asked worriedly, making a move as to step back.

“Never from you!” she grinned widely, catching his elbow to stop him from retreating. Her fingers traced over his lips softly. “Why did we waste so many months when we could have been doing this instead?”

He laughed and pulled her close before kissing her again.

–

Sophie hissed in pain, dropping the needle and lifting her bleeding finger as not to get any blood on the fabric in front of her.

Musichetta looked up. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” she spoke through clenched teeth, pressing her handkerchief to her fingertip to stop the bleeding. “The needle slipped.”

“Here, use my thimble.”

Sophie accepted the thimble with a smile and continued sewing. They were sat in the back room of the Musain, sewing Tricolore cockades. It had been the night before that Jehan noted the cockades they'd been wearing since the July revolution were looking more than a little tattered. Sophie had offered to make new ones, and when she'd told Musichetta about it, the older woman wanted to help too.

“Did you wear one, during the July revolution?” Sophie asked as she finished another cockade and put it next to the others. 

Musichetta shook her head. “I wasn't very interested in politics then, though I'd been subjected to this lot for almost two years. It wasn't until after, when I saw what a revolution could change, that I actually started to believe in what the Amis were trying to accomplish.”

Sophie looked over to where Enjolras was midst debate with Feuilly and Combeferre. As if feeling her eyes on him, he looked her way. In the days that had passed since that sunny afternoon in the Jardin du Luxembourg, they had spent as much time as they could with each other but it hardly seemed enough. She tried to suppress a smile but by the glint in his eyes and the raising of his eyebrows, she knew she had failed.

She thought she heard him chuckle as she looked back to Musichetta. “It took them that long to convert you?”

Musichetta smirked. “I had other things than politics on my mind.”

Sophie laughed. “I'm sure you did.”

It was a few hours later when Sophie put down the final finished cockade. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows and bathing the room in a golden light. Enjolras approached the table, and there was a faraway look on his face as he ran his hand over the cockades, as though seeing them made him recall some distant memory. 

“Are they up to your standards?”

“They are. Your contributions are much appreciated.”

“It's the least we can do,” Sophie smiled.

Musichetta stood. “I think we deserve some wine after this.” She walked away, leaving Sophie and Enjolras alone.

He leant back against the table. “How much do I owe you for the fabrics?”

“You owe me nothing,” she said, packing up her sewing kit. “Think of it as a donation to the cause.”

Enjolras picked up one of the cockades and reached it out towards her. “Since you're responsible for them, I think it only fair that you should get the first use.”

“Thank you.” She carefully pinned the cockade to her pelisse. “Will I be seeing you later?” she said softly, attention still on fastening the cockade.

He shook his head slightly. “Not tonight,” he spoke low. “Tomorrow?”

Meeting his eyes, Sophie smiled. “Tomorrow.”

She left the Musain shortly after, stepping out on the Place Saint-Michel, which was still fairly busy despite the late hour. She allowed her eyes a few moments to get adjusted to the dimmer lights of the square and as they did, a familiar face appeared in her line of vision. She shivered and wrapped her pelisse closer around her before stepping forward to meet him.

Lieutenant Bouchard tipped his hat at her. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Guilhon. I've not seen you for some months, I trust you are well?”

“Bonsoir, Lieutenant. I am well, thank you.”

His eyes shifted down and the smile faded from his face. “I was unaware you had political affiliations.”

Realising he had noticed her cockade, she nodded. “I am interested in politics, yes.”

He gave her a disapproving look. “That's hardly a respectable business for a lady to be involved in.”

“Respectable is a matter of perspective,” she said dryly. “These are changing times, Lieutenant, one must adapt or risk being left behind.”

“Those are radical words from a lady such as yourself. Words like that could have consequences you're not prepared for.”

Her jaw clenched. “My brother was killed in the Place Vendôme riots, so I do know about consequences. I'm not some silly girl.”

His face softened. “I apologise, Mademoiselle, I meant no disrespect.”

“That's all right.” She raised her chin. “If you don't mind, Lieutenant, I should be heading home.”

“May I see you safely home? These streets could be unsafe.”

Inwardly, she groaned. She'd had quite enough of the Lieutenant for one night. Outwardly, she smiled courteously. “That won't be necessary, I don't live far.” 

She said good night, heart pounding as she walked away at a brisk pace. Meeting Bouchard that close to the Musain made her uneasy. Though he had no way of knowing the matters they spoke of in the back room, it would do none of them good to have him lurking around.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables, only my original characters

**Chapter 7**

Enjolras pushed his sodden hair from his eyes as he walked up the curving stairs at Rue Meunier. The sudden rainfall had caught him by surprise, and though he'd hurried his steps he felt like a drowned rat. Knocking lightly on Sophie's door, he heard shuffling and footsteps from inside before the door swung open and she appeared. She was wearing a pink morning dress and her hair was unbound, and for a moment he was rendered speechless.

Ushering him inside, she clasped his hands. “Good heavens, Antoine! Did you swim through the Seine to get here?”

“I suspect I'd be less wet if I had,” he said dryly, allowing her to remove his satchel and coat and hanging them to dry. 

“You're dripping all over the floor. Hold on.” She got out a large cloth from a cupboard and gestured to his hair. “May I?”

At his nod, she ran the cloth over his wet tresses. After a few minutes the cloth fell away, and and now it was her fingers raking through his damp hair. He could barely contain a groan, and his hands gripped her waist. She surprised them both by pulling his head down and kissing him fiercely. She moaned against his mouth, and a heat spread through his body. They were both flushed and breathless when she pulled away.

“What was that for?” he asked hotly against her lips.

Sophie grinned. “You simply looked irresistible.”

He pulled back, curling his fingers through the ends of her hair. “I don't think I've seen you with your hair down before.”

Her cheeks reddened slightly. “Do you like it?”

“Very much.”

She kissed him lightly. Moving away, she grabbed the cloth from the floor and hung it by the fire to dry. “Will the kitchen table do? I don't have a desk.”

He nodded, grabbing his still wet satchel. “That will be fine.”

He took out his papers and pen, as well as a fresh inkwell, and sat. Sophie put down her things as well, and moved her chair so they were sitting side by side rather than opposite each other. At his raised eyebrow, she gave a cheeky smile. They worked on their respective writing in silence for a couple of hours, long enough for the rainstorm to pass and the flat be filled with sunlight. Enjolras put the pen down and flexed his hand. Looking over at Sophie, he noticed there was a stack of folded papers in front of her with written names on them, which peaked his curiosity.

“What are you working on?”

She brushed the hair out of her face. “Letters to some of the grisettes in the Latin quarter who I know are sympathetic to our cause. We need all the hands we can get.”

“I agree, but I'm not sure how much help they will at the barricades be when the time comes.”

She stopped writing, pen hovering over the paper. “You won't allow women at the barricade?”

He touched her hand. “I would never turn away a citizen wishing to join our fight, but there is more than one way to help us win our revolution. One needn't be at the barricade for that.”

“And if I wanted to fight at the barricade? Would you let me stay?” the words were out before she could stop them, and his hand stilled on hers.

“Is that what you wish?”

“Yes. No.” She sighed. “I don't know. I've not given much thought to it.” She touched his face, thumb sliding over his cheekbone. “Must we talk about this now?”

Touching her cheek, he smiled slightly. “No, we don't.”

The knock on the door startled them both, and Enjolras frowned. “Are you expecting someone?”

Rising, Sophie shook her head. “Who is it?” she called out when she reached the door.

“It's Musichetta and Joly.”

Enjolras stood as the two entered, dressed in their Sunday best. Both looked surprised to see him.

“I wasn't expecting to see you here,” Joly said, removing his hat.

“Enjolras has been helping me with some writing,” Sophie said casually, closing the door.

Musichetta eyed him before turning to Sophie. “How kind. We wondered if you'd join us for an early Easter dinner? You as well, Enjolras, of course.”

Sophie smiled. “I'd love to, give me a moment to get ready and we can go.”

“Good, I'm starving,” Musichetta said. “We missed lunch because we were stuck inside the church, since Joly refused to go outside while it was still raining.”

“I have a cold, Chetta, and I do not wish for it to become pneumonia because I was out in the rain.” Joly frowned at Enjolras. “Why is there ink on your face?”

“Inky fingers,” Enjolras deadpanned.

“What are you doing?” Sophie asked as she re-entered the room, having swept her hair up and added a lace collar to her dress. Seeing the ink, she tried not to smile. “Come on, you'll need water to get that out.”

He followed her over to the wash bin, where she wetted a handkerchief before rubbing it over his cheek. They shared a secret smile, and she stifled a giggle. Perhaps they should make sure their fingers were ink free in the future.

–

There wasn't much time for Sophie and Enjolras to spend together over the next few weeks; Paris was a powder keg ready to explode and there was much to be done in preparation for the revolution. The atmosphere in the back room of the Musain became more intense, the meetings became longer, and the circles underneath the blond leader's eyes darker. Grantaire was more obnoxious than ever and the more Enjolras pushed, the more the drunkard pushed back. At one meeting tensions had run so high only Combeferre's calm intervening avoided an actual fight breaking out.

Sophie was closing up the store, preparing to meet Enjolras before tonight's meeting, when Courfeyrac burst through the door. His face was red and his hair was in disarray.

“Courf, what are you-”

His raised hand stopped her, and he leaned against the closed door for a few moments to collect his breath before speaking. “General Lamarque has contracted cholera.”

“What?” she gasped.

Wiping at his forehead with his handkerchief, Courfeyrac nodded. “I assure you, it's true. The time of the meeting has changed to, well, now. So as soon as you're done here, get to the Musain. Don't tarry!”

After he'd rushed off, Sophie found it difficult to concentrate. She put back the fabrics in the wrong slots, unravelled a whole ribbon roll and almost cut herself while putting away the scissors. All she could think of was the news from Courfeyrac, and what this would mean for all of them. After locking up, she hurried towards the Musain.

Even before she'd reached the door to the back room it was clear the meeting was in full swing; sounds of voices and clapping much louder than at a regular meeting. Stepping inside, the energy was so thick it was almost palpable. There were more than thirty people packed into the small room, and the noise was so loud it was sure to be heard several streets away. Some faces were familiar to her, but most were strangers; both ruddy students in fine jackets and workers with rough voices and weathered clothes. As she attempted to navigate through the crowd, Enjolras drew her gaze.

He was stood atop his usual table, jacket discarded on the back of his chair. The sweat on his brow had darkened his hair, his waistcoat was unbuttoned and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow. His whole person animated with equal parts rage and excitement and the entire room was clinging to his every word with occasional shouts of agreement. 

“With the news of Lamarque's illness, it's more important than ever to show our support, to show the swells who run are running this country into the ground that we will not be silenced! It's men like you, men of the people, who are needed in this fight, the fight for freedom! Who will be strong and stand up for those who can't, stand up for the people? Vive la France!”

A chorus of Vive la France echoed back as Enjolras stepped down from the table. Sophie pushed her way towards him, and when she reached him it was difficult not to throw her arms around him. He was glorious, breath heavy and eyes alight with fire and passion.

“I came as soon as I could,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the crowd. “It's really true about Lamarque?”

“I'm afraid so. We're gathering at Lamarque's house tomorrow at 3 o'clock, can you get the word out to the grisettes before then?”

She nodded. “Of course, anything you need.”

He clasped her elbow and squeezed it lightly. “Thank you.” He walked off to talk to the new members.

Sophie's chest filled with equal parts pride and fear as she watched him interact with the new recruits. He was articulate and honest, answering as many questions he could and making each and every man in that room feel heard. This was his purpose, his only purpose, and it terrified her. She wasn't naïve enough to think loving her would change anything, and if it had he would not be the Enjolras she fell in love with. She spotted Combeferre by the piano, looking pensive as he studied the map of the old republic on the wall.

He nodded when she stopped next to him. “It seems the revolution is inevitable.”

“I won't lie, I'd rather it not come to this,” she admitted, the first time she'd done so aloud.

Noticing her gaze had shifted to Enjolras, he touched her shoulder. “I can understand that. We will prepare as much as we can, and the rest is up to God, or whatever you choose to believe in.”

“I believe in Enjolras.” She managed a half-smile. “I know I have him on borrowed time. Men like him are meant to do great things, but they're not meant to last.”

It was several hours later before the meeting was called to an end, by which time the knot in Sophie's stomach had grown tenfold. Amidst talk of muskets and cartridges, she had slipped out the door leading down to Rue des Grés. Sitting on the stairs, she wrapped her arms tightly around herself and took a shaky breath. She'd know about it for months, longer even, but tonight cemented that the revolution was near. The sound of the door opening startled her, and she shot up from her position. 

Combeferre looked at her with worried eyes. “Did I startle you?”

“Just a bit. Is the meeting over?”

“It is.”

“Is Enjolras still inside?”

Combeferre nodded. “He's waiting for you.”

She said goodnight to the medical student and went back inside. The room was now empty, save for Enjolras who was leaning against a table. He eyed her as she approached. “Are you all right?”

Sighing, she straightened his waistcoat. “I'm fine, I'm just tired. It's been a long day.” She had no energy to try to explain her jumbled thoughts tonight. “We'll meet at Lamarque's house tomorrow?”

Enjolras nodded and squeezed her arms. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

“No, I need some time to think.”

“Of course.” He kissed her forehead, and she smiled at the gesture.

–

The clock had only just gone half past two, but the courtyard outside General Lamarque's house at Rue Saint-Honoré was already brimming with people. Sophie, having just arrived with Musichetta, was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people who were in attendance.

“Do you see anyone we know?” Musichetta asked, eyes searching through the crowd. Neither woman had a particular height advantage, and the crowd blended individual people together so it was difficult to spot anyone particular.

“Not yet.” Sophie stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. She'd barely gotten any sleep last night, tossing and turning between vivid nightmares of death and a failed revolution.

Musichetta's gaze fixated on a spot in the crowd. “I think I see Feuilly. Come on.”

Grabbing Musichetta's hand as not to lose her in the crowd, Sophie followed her friend through the crowd towards the entrance of the building. A few members of the Amis were standing by a cart that had been placed there, conversing lightly. Enjolras noticed them first and nodded in greeting.

“Citizeness Guilhon, Vallee. I'm glad you could join us.”

“This is quite the turnout,” Musichetta said. 

“Indeed. The people have shown they will stand with us,” he added triumphally.

“Has there been any news from Lamarque?” Sophie asked.

“None today,” Combeferre said. “Two doctors entered a while ago, but we've seen no priest so he's still alive.”

“So far,” Feuilly said.

Enjolras nodded. “Let's start. Be prepared with the pamphlets.” He climbed up on the cart. “Citizens!” The hum of the crowd ebbed out when he spoke.

“Can you help us handing these out?” Joly asked, handing Sophie a stack of pamphlets.

She accepted them with a nod. “Of course.”

Weaving through the crowd and handing out as many pamphlets she could meant she wasn't paying attention to Enjolras' speech, but by the crowd's reaction it seemed he was reaching them. A metallic glint caught her eye, and her blood froze. Lieutenant Bouchard weaving his way through the crowd, determination on his brow.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped when he reached her, all thoughts of propriety forgotten.

He looked disapprovingly at her. “You should not be here.”

“You have no right to tell me where to go. Nothing illegal is going on here, simply concerned citizens wishing to show their support for General Lamarque.”

He grabbed her upper arms and shook her slightly. “This is no place for you, you need to leave. Now.”

“Take your hands off me!” she cried, ripping her arms from his grip. As she did, a scream rang through the air. The National Guard had entered the courtyard to break up the crowd, and panic ensued as everyone tried to escape. Sophie fought to get to the front to reach Enjolras, and did so just as he jumped down from the cart.

He pressed a passkey into her hand. “Get to my flat, I'll meet you there as soon as I can. Go!”

Sophie ran until her lungs were burning and her knees were shaky. Leaning against a building, she took deep gulping breaths, trying to calm herself down enough to get on an omnibus. Within an hour she was walking through the door of Enjolras' flat and could breathe easy again. The flat was empty; she'd clearly beaten Enjolras there, and now all she could do was wait. She started pacing, too nervous to stay in one position. It felt like hours before she heard footsteps outside and the door opened.

Enjolras looked dishevelled but unhurt and his eyes were fierce as he crossed the space and embraced her tightly. She made no protest, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and feeling him shudder as she raked a hand through his hair. He mumbled something unintelligible against her skin, breath damp on the crook of her neck, and she pushed at him slightly.

“What was that?”

He pulled back, arms still firm around her. “I'm glad you're all right.”

“And I you.”

She ran her hands down to his brow, over the rest of his face and down to the strong line of his neck and shoulders. Loosening his cravat and undoing the top buttons of his shirt, she touched the warm skin of his throat. Having imagined all kinds of scenarios, she needed something tangible to reassure her that he was unhurt.

“Did everyone get away unharmed?” she asked, feeling him swallow underneath her fingertips.

His arms loosened around her. “I believe so.” He led her over to the desk, where he pulled their chairs close together. “Although Courfeyrac is mourning the loss of yet another hat.”

She smiled slightly at his attempt at humour. “Poor dear. He's devastated, I'm sure.” She looked up, suddenly remembering something. “Bouchard was at the rally, right before the National Guard arrived. He told me that I shouldn't be there and that I needed to leave.”

Enjolras frowned. “He was warning you? Why?”

“I don't know, but for once I'm glad for his aptitude of showing up where I least expect him to.” She sighed. “How are the preparations going? Combeferre mentioned you were meeting someone to buy muskets?”

He rubbed his neck. “It's coming along, but we need more gunpowder. We cannot afford to be caught short-handed in battle.”

Her stomach clenched. “How much goes gunpowder cost?”

“Too much,” he said sardonically.

“I'll help; I have some money saved.”

“I can't ask you to do that.”

She squeezed his hand. “You're not asking, I'm offering. I'm a part of this too. Will you not allow me to help?”

“Of course I will,” he was quick to say. Looking at their clasped hands, he exhaled sharply, hoping she wouldn't be startled at what he was about to ask. “Sophie, there's something I want to discuss with you. I hadn't planned on doing this now, but in light of recent events I can't put it off any longer.”

“Oh?”

“I will confess I'd not thought much of the future, but with General Lamarque's illness it's certain the revolution will come sooner than all of us anticipated.” He squeezed her hand. “I know it's not something you wish to think about, but there is a possibility I will not survive the revolution. It's something I've accepted, but it does not make it easier knowing what I'm leaving behind.”

Sophie frowned. “Antoine, what are you saying?”

He looked at her so earnestly, face open and making him seem younger than his years. “If I made you mine, would you have me?”

She gaped. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

His face fell slightly. “Does it come as such a shock?”

“It's not something I expected, not now.”

“It may be the only time, and I don't want to chance it. I love you, Sophie.”

A warmth and lightness she couldn't deny filled her. It wasn't as though she hadn't guessed his feelings, but guessing and actually hearing the words were two different things. “I love you as well, very much. Antoine, are you sure? Because if you are, you know what my answer is.”

His face lit up in a smile. “I am, absolutely.”

Her eyes were filled with joy as she kissed him lightly. “What do we do now? There is no time for posting the banns or getting a church wedding organised in such a short time.”

“It will only be at the mayor's office. It's not ideal,” he admitted, “and not what I wanted for you. You deserve a real wedding. I don't even have a ring to give you.”

She caressed his face. “A wedding like that would be nice, but I don't need it. I need you, Antoine. That's what matters, you and me.”

He kissed her hand fiercely, barely containing his own smile.

–

It took Sophie several days to pluck up the courage to talk to Musichetta about her impending wedding. Not that she was afraid of her friend's reaction, but more she was unsure how to broach the subject. It wasn't until the Wednesday of the same week she finally spoke up, when they were sat in the flat shared my Musichetta and Joly.

“I need to ask a favour,” she said, spinning the spoon in her coffee cup around and around.

“That depends on the favour,” Musichetta answered without looking up from the shirt she was mending for Joly.

“I need you to take the day off work on Saturday. I've already talked with Monsieur Foulon, it's fine by him.”

Looking up, Musichetta frowned. “The favour is I need to be free on Saturday? Why?”

“Because I need you to act as a witness at my wedding.”

“What?” she sputtered. “You're getting married? To whom?”

Sophie couldn't stop herself from smiling. “To Enjolras.”

“To Enjolras? Are you serious?”

“Very serious, I assure you. Are you trying to catch flies?”

Musichetta's mouth snapped closed. “You can hardly blame me for being caught off guard. You need to explain this, properly. How did this happen? When did this happen?”

It took a while, but eventually Sophie had told her friend everything that transpired between her and the blond leader. From their first meeting to Enjolras' fascination with her opinions, and the many walks they'd take together. She spoke of when she realised her feelings ran deeper than friendship, how scared she was because she was sure he didn't feel the same way and confusion and uncertainty when she found out he did. The almost relationship they'd had before Joseph were shot and the road back to each other since she'd returned to Paris.

At the end of the telling, Musichetta was quite stunned. “How did I not know about any of this?”

Sophie shrugged. “At first we weren't even sure what was coming out of it, so we didn't feel ready to tell people.”

The older woman sighed. “I suppose I should feel hurt you didn't tell me, but I understand why you didn't. And now you're getting married!”

“It's still quite a foreign thought,” Sophie admitted. “I never imagined Enjolras even considering marriage with everything that's going on, but he keeps surprising me.”

“I never imagined Enjolras would settle down with anyone, but it makes sense it's you,” Musichetta mused.

Sophie laughed. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. Have you spoken to your father about this?”

Averting her eyes, Sophie's smile faded. She had sent her father several letters over the course of the past months, hoping to reconcile. There had been no answer though, so she had resigned herself to the fact that her father wanted nothing to do with her. She'd spent almost two hours crying in Enjolras' arms after the last letter failed to get a response. “I've not. Even if we still were in contact, I'm not sure he would approve.”

Musichetta smiled wistfully. “Enjolras could have convinced him. That boy could charm the pants off a priest.”

Sophie chuckled, trying hard not to think of the fact that her father may not get the chance to meet Enjolras for more reasons than one.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is having a lovely weekend!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables, only my original characters

**Chapter 8**

The morning of the 26th of May was a beautiful one; the blue skies and gentle breeze promising a fine day, and in the flat on Rue Meunier the windows had all been thrown open to encourage the breeze inside. The two occupants of the flat paid little attention to the weather though, as more important things were on their minds.

“What time is it?”

“It's only twenty past seven. Enjolras and Combeferre will be here at eight, so we still have plenty of time,” Musichetta reassured Sophie as she fiddled with a hairpin.

“Good, good.” Sophie exhaled deeply. Her stomach was in knots, and she couldn't get her hands to stop shaking. “I don't know why I'm so nervous.”

Musichetta laid her hands on her friend's shoulders. “It's only natural to be nervous before your wedding. It'll pass, I promise you.” She started humming as she continued with Sophie's hair.

While appreciating the sentiment, Sophie didn't feel the least bit calmer. She'd never imagined herself as someone's wife, mainly because she valued her freedom far too high to marry for any other reason than love. But now she had love, and she was still so nervous. Wasn't she supposed feel calm?

“There, all done.”

Pulled from her thoughts, Sophie smiled. “Thank you, Musichetta. What time is it now?”

“There's still twenty minutes until the boys get here, no need to panic. Let's get you dressed.”

With Musichetta's help she changed from her dressing gown and into her dress. She'd had neither the time nor the money to have a new dress made, so she'd picked out one of her favourites to wear. It was a becoming shade of light blue, accented at the waist by a navy silk ribbon. The neckline showed off the slope of her shoulders, and the sleeves were embroidered with delicate flowers. The only jewellery she wore was the silver necklace that had once belonged to her mother.

“There, you're all done. You look beautiful, Sophie.”

Clasping her friend's hands, Sophie beamed. “Thank you, Chetta. And thank you so much for being here, I can't begin to explain what it means to me.”

“You're like a sister to me, of course I'd be here.” The knock on the door made her smile, and she squeezed Sophie's hands. “They're here!”

Taking a deep breath, Sophie turned to the door and smoothed down her skirts. Combeferre entered first, eyes merry behind his spectacles, but she only had eyes for Enjolras. He looked striking in well-cut trousers and tailored jacket, and she caught a peek of a maroon waistcoat. When their eyes locked all her nerves melted away, leaving in its stead a sense of calm that radiated from her chest out to the rest of her body. His eyes were full of amazement and a wanting that sent a warmth through her body.

“We'll give you two some privacy.”

The door closed, and they were alone.

Enjolras stepped forward, blue eyes still wide with wonder. “You look...stunning.”

She ducked her head, cheeks burning at the compliment but filling her with a satisfactory feeling. She met his eyes. “So do you.” She pushed a piece of his hair beneath his hat and smiled when he caught her hand and placed a kiss on her palm.

“Are you ready?” 

She interlaced her fingers with his and nodded. “I'm ready. Let's get married.”

As they stepped into the hallway they met Doctor Meyer, who's face lit up at the sight of them. “Isn't this a handsome couple! I don't believe I've met your sweetheart, Mademoiselle Guilhon.”

Enjolras tipped his hat slightly. “Antoine Enjolras, Monsieur.”

“Charmed. Where are you two off to looking so fine?”

“We're getting married this morning,” Sophie beamed, feeling Enjolras' fingers tighten around her own.

A smile spread across the doctor's face. “You are? I believe congratulations are in order, then.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said sincerely.

A fiacre was waiting for them downstairs, and Musichetta and Combeferre were already inside. Enjolras helped Sophie climb in before getting in himself. As the fiacre began moving, he took Sophie's hand. They made idle chit chat on the way to the mayor's office, which didn't take long despite the mid-morning hour.

Even years later, Sophie couldn't remember much of what was said at the magistrate's office that day. All she recalled was the pounding of her heart, Enjolras' amused smile as he said his vows and his soft lips on hers as they kissed gently. The registers were signed, and the magistrate wished them a happy marriage before they were ushered out. The whole process took only half an hour, and as they exited the building, Combeferre spoke.

“This deserves a toast. How about we take it at the Musain? I daresay we'll find our friends already there, despite the early hour.”

“Especially since you ordered them to be there,” Sophie chuckled. “Courfeyrac told me, quite confused on why you would call a meeting with only the eight of them on a Saturday morning.”

“A good time to share the news,” Enjolras said offhandedly.

“If they're half as surprised as I was, it will be quite the sight,” Musichetta said, adjusting her bonnet.

The trip back to the Latin Quarter took almost twice as long as the streets were now filled with people going about their business and wagons delivering goods. Exiting the fiacre outside the Musain, Sophie didn't let go of Enjolras' hand. 

He smiled fondly at her. “Are you ready?”

She smiled back wistfully. “I am. I just wish Joseph was here.”

He squeezed her hand. “I know.”

“Let's go inside,” she said, smiling reassuringly. “I can't wait to tell our friends.”

The rest of the Amis were, in fact, waiting in the back room when the four from the wedding party arrived. Even Grantaire was sat in a corner, looking more sober than usual but with a glass of wine in his hand.

He gave a whistle. “Don't you cut a fine statue.” As he spoke, he drew the attention of the rest of the Amis to the newcomers.

“Thank you for coming,” Enjolras said, voice unwavering. “I have some news for you. As of this morning, Sophie and I are married.”

A stunned silence filled the room, until Bahorel slammed his fist down on the table. “Ha, I told you! Pay up.”

The couple looked confused on as their friends grumbled and handed money to Bahorel. “What is going on?” Sophie asked, looking from the confused Enjolras to a chuckling Combeferre.

“Did you think we were unaware of your relationship?” Courfeyrac laughed at their puzzled look. “You both have many fine qualities, but lying isn't one of them. We figured it out weeks ago.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

He grinned cheekily. “We had a wager going on how long it would take you to tell us. Bahorel betted you'd be married before telling us, so he won.”

“A good sum, I hope,” Enjolras said wryly.

“A toast!” Combeferre, having produced a glass of wine from somewhere, raised it up in the air, and the others followed suit. “To two of my dearest friends; I wish you all the happiness in the world, it is nothing less than you deserve. To Sophie and Enjolras.”

Cheering went up as they toasted, and Courfeyrac was the first one out of his seat to congratulate the couple. “If I have to give you up to anyone, I couldn't think of a better match than Enjolras,” he grinned before embracing Sophie tightly.

She chuckled. “You'll find someone else, dear.”

By the time all had said their personal well-wishes, Sophie was feeling a bit misty-eyed. Discreetly wiping at her eyes, she couldn't keep the smile off her face. They were a very special group of people, those boys. Food was ordered up, and wine was served along with sugar water. It could hardly be called a feast, but it was one of the happiest days she had experienced in a long time. Over the next hours they celebrated, and it seemed, if only for those few hours, that they'd all forgotten what was going on outside the four walls of the room. Through the talking, laughing and occasional drunken singing, Sophie felt Enjolras' eyes on her even when he wasn't by her side.

“I can't believe you all kept your knowledge of us a secret,” Sophie said, sipping on her wine. “We thought we were being very cautious.”

Feuilly smiled, and clasped Jehan's shoulder. “It was all Jehan's doing. He is more observant than he's given credit for.”

The poet blushed through a smile. “It wasn't actually that hard to notice, and once I did you'd might as well have been screaming it from the rooftops.”

Laughing, Sophie glanced across the room to where Enjolras was conversing with Courfeyrac and Bossuet. “I suppose something like that is hard to hide, even if one is good at lying.”

“It's a shame we couldn't be at your wedding, although I understand why you went about things as you did.”

“Had things been different, I'd have loved to have you all there. But the ceremony wasn't the important part, this is. I'm so grateful to have you all in my life.”

As the sun was slowly setting behind the buildings of the city, Enjolras came to stand by her side. He slid an arm around her waist, resting it on the small of her back, and leaned in close. “Perhaps it's time for us to take our leave?”

It wasn't the words so much as the low timbre of his voice, so clearly laced with wanting, that sent goosebumps over her flesh. Mutely, she nodded. “I don't suppose a quiet getaway is possible?”

“Doubtful.” He cleared his throat, getting the attention of the room. “Thank you for an incredible day, but it's time for us to retire.”

Sophie's face burnt bright red as whistles and cheers went up, and even as the door closed behind them the rumpus continued. Catching his hand, Sophie smiled. “Shall we go to your place or mine? We've not talked about where to stay.”

Enjolras stepped forward, almost trapping her body between his and the wall. “Your flat is closer.”

“Mine it is then,” she said breathlessly.

It was a balmy night, but they didn't tarry to enjoy it, both much too eager and anxious. Enjolras tried hard not to touch her as she lead them into her flat, fearing he wouldn't be able to stop if he did.

“Let me get some candles,” she said, hoping he wouldn't catch the quiver in her voice. She lit several candles around the flat, conscious not to put any too close to the bed.

When she turned back he was still standing in the middle of the room, watching her. In one movement they both moved forward and met in a frenzied state of lips and hands. Enjolras groaned when her mouth opened under his, and tangled his hands into her hair.

She hissed in pain. “Ow, wait.”

Practically leaping back, embarrassment filled him. “I'm sorry, did I hurt you?”

Sophie smiled sheepishly. “It's the pins, I just need to take them out.”

He watched in fascination as she removed what seemed like an unreasonable amount of hairpins, and her chestnut hair tumbled down past her shoulder blades. It looked soft, and this was confirmed when he ran his hands through it before guiding her mouth back to his. Her hands gripped his shoulders, and she let out small gasps when he kissed down to her neck. Her skin was smooth and warm, and he couldn't stop himself from grabbing her hips and pulling her body flush against his.

“Wait, wait,” she moaned, pushing at him slightly. Raising his head, he looked puzzled at her. “I can't concentrate when you do that.”

He laughed. “Then why did you want me to stop?”

“You're wearing too many clothes.” Her fingers rose to his cravat, tugging on the knot. After a few unsuccessful attempts she dropped her hands with a groan. “Did you double tie this just to frustrate me?”

“I'd never do such a thing,” he grinned, untying the knot himself and pulling off the cravat. As he did, she deftly unbuttoned his waistcoat and pushed the garment off his shoulders. His hands went around her back in search of the fastening of her dress, but she stilled his hands.

Biting her lip, she pulled her hair over one shoulder and turned her back to him. He placed a soft kiss on the nape of her neck before lowering his hands to her dress. “Why are there so many buttons?” he murmured, and her body shook with laughter. Finally, finally, the last button was undone, and she stepped out of the dress. He swallowed hard. Her stays came off easier, even though his hands fumbled with the laces.

Clad now only in her chemise, she turned to face him. Before she could second guess herself, she tugged his shirt from the waistband of his trousers, and he raised his arms to help her pull it off. He was standing perfectly still, and in the dim light it wasn't difficult to see how he'd earned his nickname of the marble sculpture. Her hands were trembling as she reached out and laid her hands on his chest, feeling the soft smattering of hair beneath her fingers and the thumping of his heart. Her stomach coiled, and she exhaled sharply.

She looked up, meeting his eyes, as his hands found her hips, the fabric of her chemise bunching up. Raising her arms, he wasted no time in discarding the garment. She'd expected to feel nervous, perhaps even embarrassed, to have him gaze upon her naked form so openly, but she felt none of that as she watched him watch her. When he met her eyes, they were filled with adoration. They kissed fiercely, and she pulled him along with her towards the bed. There they paused, and she giggled when they failed miserably to move somewhat smoothly onto the bed. She climbed into the bed and reached for him to join her, but in his haste to remove his trousers, he got them tangled in his boots and nearly fell to the floor.

Overcome with laughter, she rolled onto her back and covered her face with her hands as she tried to get herself under control. The bed dipped beside her, and releasing her hands she saw him looking at her with an amused smile. Her laughter died when he kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to pull him fully on top of her. He obliged, settling between her parted thighs, and they both moaned at the contact.

Moaning when his kisses trailed down to her chest, she buried her hands in his hair and pressed up against him. His groan vibrated against her skin, and she bit her lip to stifle a whimper when his hand slid over her waist and between them to the junction of her thighs. Her body was aflame, coiled tightly and she gasped for air. He raised his head, face alight with wanting. “Antoine, I need you.”

“Are you sure? Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

They didn't break eye contact as he aligned his body with hers and slowly pushed into her. She keened, fingers clutching at his shoulders as her back arched.

“Oh, gods.”

He groaned when he was fully buried inside her, eyes closing. He mumbled something she couldn't quite make out before starting to move. It took a few clumsy tries for them to find a satisfying rhythm, and she wrapped her arms around his back to encourage him. She reached up to kiss him messily as he thrust into her, his mouth swallowing her moans. He tore his mouth from his and flung his head back.

“I can't...It's too,” he groaned, pushing into her hard as his release tore through him. He collapsed on top of her, burying his face in her neck. A stillness came over them, the only movement was Sophie's hands running lightly over his back. It took a while for him to compose himself, and after pulling out he lifted himself up to look at her. She looked glorious; flushed skin, lips swollen and with her hair fanned out over the pillow.

“You're so beautiful,” she whispered, pushing his damp hair away from his forehead.

He kissed her softly. “So are you.” Rolling off her, he leaned up on his elbow. “Did you like it?”

She smiled at the awkward question. “I did, very much.”

“But you didn't...” His face burnt, embarrassed by having gone faster than either one of them would have liked.

“I don't mind, truly,” she reassured him. “Musichetta shared some enlightening facts about the act of love and what to expect a few days ago, but I can't say it was an entirely welcome conversation.”

“Combeferre at least had the decency to ask if I had any questions, instead of offering the information freely.”

Sophie giggled. “I think we managed well on our own, regardless of our friends' evolvement.”

Smiling, he touched her face. “Very much so.”

Enjolras kissed her languidly until her hips started gyrating against his again, then his mouth left hers and trailed down to her breasts. She let out a needy whimper, and her hands clutched at his hair. Letting her sounds of pleasure guide him, he slid a hand between her thighs. He tentatively parted her folds and located a small nub of flesh, which he pressed his finger against. Her hips practically flew off the bed, and she tugged sharply on his hair. He lifted his head and met her eyes, which were darker than he'd ever seen, and he felt himself getting hard again at the sight and feel of her.

“Please, don't stop,” her words turned into a groan, her back arching.

He reclaimed her mouth, swallowing both their sounds as he aligned himself and entered her again. He kept circling her nub as he started thrusting into her a bit harder and with more purpose than earlier. Her hands clawed at whatever they could reach; his back, the sheets, his hair. Her head was thrown back in pleasure and he placed hot kisses on her neck, sucking lightly on her pulse point. Feeling the signs of his release, he flicked her nub faster and angled his hips for easier movement, hoping to bring her to her peak before he reached his.

“Yes, please, keep, don't,” she babbled incoherently, digging her nails into his back.

Right before his release, he felt her tighten around him and a high pitched moan left her mouth as her entire body seized up. He practically saw stars as he rode out his release, and he collapsed on top of her for the second time that night. Holding her shaking body to his, he placed soft kisses on her face. A sated smile spread across her face, and she blinked slowly. He made to move off her, but she wrapped her arms around him to keep him in place.

“I'm crushing you,” he half-protested.

She shook her head. “No. I want you close.” Tracing his face with her fingers, she smiled. “I can't believe we're actually married.”

“It's something new,” he agreed. Rolling them over, without protest this time, he settled onto his back.

Sophie threw her leg over his and leaned her chin on his chest. “I never imagined I would be.”

He pushed a wayward strand of hair from her face. “Why not?”

“I could never be persuaded into marriage by any other reason than love, which wasn't something I was particularly looking for or even missing in my life. Until I met you.”

Enjolras smiled, fingers still lingering on her face. “I feel quite the same way.”

–

Despite what Enjolras expected, there were no jeering or crude innuendos from his friends in the days following the wedding. He suspected Combeferre was behind this, and he was grateful for it. General Lamarque's health continued to decline, and Enjolras spent his days meeting other resistant groups, doing reconnaissance and gatherings muskets and gunpowder. There was a subdued atmosphere at the Musain at the nightly meetings; they all felt the weight of what was to come.

“Do you have room for more gunpowder?” Enjolras asked Bahorel as they were sat in the back room the Musain. “I don't feel comfortable leaving it here for any longer than necessary.”

Bahorel nodded. “I'll have to clear out some cupboards, but I'll make it work.”

“Good.” The blond leader sighed. “I met with the Society of the People earlier today at the Issy quarry, they're seriously short handed. They've lost five members to cholera just this week.”

“If this keeps up there won't be anyone left to fight,” Combeferre interjected. “What about the Courgourde?”

He shook his head. “They're not at full strength either.”

“We'll manage.”

“The people will rise,” Feuilly said confidently. “We shouldn't underestimate the power of a disgruntled people. In the second partition of Poland-”

“Please don't start off on Poland again,” Joly groaned, then sneezed. “I don't care about Poland. This is France, not Poland,” his voice was muddled by his handkerchief as he blew his nose.

“The plights of oppressed people aren't bound by geographic lines.”

An argument broke out, and Enjolras sighed. They were all anxious; ready to fight but not knowing when, like a storm that could break at any second.

“You should be concerned with our people.”

“People are people, no matter where they're from!”

“Then why don't you move to Poland if you love it so much?”

“Everybody, listen!”

“Maybe I will, to get away from you!”

“Listen!”

The room stopped at the sound of Gavroche's cry, surprised because none had heard him enter. He looked around the room before settling his gaze on Enjolras.

“General Lamarque is dead.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while, life has kept me busy. If anyone's still reading, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables, only my original characters.

**Chapter 9**

The next few days passed agonisingly slow. The entirety of Les Amis practically lived at the Musain, getting everything finalised as the hours drew nearer. Sophie and Musichetta spent as much time at the café as they could; reluctant to be parted from their lovers and helping in whatever way they could. Using fabric taken from the shop, Sophie sewed together a large, red flag; the flag of liberty.

It was late when Enjolras rose. “Brothers! Tomorrow is the day we've all waited for. Tomorrow our revolution will rise like a storm, and with it will come our new future.”

Sophie looked around the room; grim faces, a few nods, men sitting up straight with fire in their eyes. What would become of them all, after the revolution? No matter the outcome, their lives would never be the same.

“I'm proud to call every one of you my brother. We all know what tomorrow brings; then is for all, tonight is for the individual.” He raised his glass. “To tomorrow!”

A chorus of to tomorrow rose, but Sophie kept silent. She didn't trust her voice not to fail her. One by one, they all slowly left. She took care to say a proper good night to her friends, knowing there was a good chance this was the last time she'd see them alive. Musichetta pressed her hand with a solemn nod; they would face tomorrow together, safe away from the battle.

Sophie straightened Jehan's cravat and put on a smile. “I can't wait to hear the poetry you'll write about this.”

He blushed. “I shall dedicate it to you, and all the pretty girls I've known.”

Courfeyrac grinned as he grabbed Sophie's shoulders. “Don't look so glum, dear. By this time tomorrow, we will be drinking to victory.”

She blinked, feeling tears burning in the corners of her eyes. “Étienne, I-”

“Don't,” he interrupted, smile and cheer disappearing. “Whatever it is you need to say, save it for afterwards.”

Hugging him fiercely, she nodded. “I will.”

Combeferre was the last to leave and as she stood before him, she found herself not knowing what to say. There was so much she wanted to say, but nothing would come out. As if sensing her predicament, he offered a gentle smile.

“I'll look after him, I promise.”

She clasped his hand. “Look after yourself as well, my friend.”

Combeferre left, and now Sophie and Enjolras were left alone in the room. It was a familiar scene; there had been many occasions in the past month they'd found themselves alone after a meeting. Unlike those moments, which had been filled with the euphoria of new love, Sophie looked at Enjolras with sorrow in her eyes. He met her eyes with conflicted ones and offered his arm. They left in silence, feeling no need to fill the air with mindless chatter.

It wasn't until he slid into the bed next to her that the silence was broken. “I've been waiting for this day to come for so long, it seems almost unreal it's finally happening.”

She could barely make out his features in the darkness but recognised the weariness in his voice. Reaching out, she found his hand and squeezed it tightly. “It's all right to be anxious. Tomorrow is an important day.”

His lips met hers almost frantically in the darkness. There was nothing gentle about their joining, the uncertainty of what was to come driving their emotions to almost a desperate level. She fought against her eyes closing, not wanting to look away for even a second. It was hours before they fell into an exhausted slumber, wrapped tightly around each other.

It seemed as only minutes later that the sun became too bright to ignore, and Sophie reluctantly opened her eyes. She had slept fitfully, waking up in cold sweat several times with her heart racing. When she fully woke, Enjolras was watching her with a faraway look in his eyes. His hand was rubbing slow circles on her skin, and he startled when she covered his hand with hers.

“Did you sleep?” she murmured, noticing the dark circles underneath his eyes.

He offered half a smile. “Barely.” In truth he'd spent most of the night watching her, knowing he'd not think much about her once he left the flat, and making up for the time lost. Despite this, he didn't feel tired, only anxious. He kissed her languidly, conveying wordlessly what he couldn't bring himself to say.

He left too quickly for both their liking, but he feared if he lingered he may be tempted never to leave. As the door closed behind him, Sophie sunk down on a chair and didn't even try to stop the tears from rolling down her face. She allowed herself a few minutes to cry, then stood up and dried her face. Tears would do her no good, and neither would the morose thoughts that ran through her mind. As she got dressed for work she made a choice to bury them; she wouldn't allow her thoughts to condemn him already.

Arriving at work, she found Musichetta staring into blank space, a half sewn petticoat lying forgotten on her lap. Her face was pale and drawn and her eyes blood-shot. She blinked when Sophie placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Enjolras wouldn't allow you to go to the funeral either?”

“I wouldn't say allow,” Sophie said, remembering the pleading look on her lover's face during the conversation, “but he wished for me not to.”

“I was set on going, but Henri begged, begged, me not to. When have you known him to beg for anything? I couldn't argue with him, I just...” she trailed off.

“We don't have to be there in order to help,” Sophie said, trying hard to believe the words herself.

Musichetta nodded. “I hope you're right.”

That day went by as slowly as a day could. Customers were scarce due to the funeral procession, leaving them with plenty of time for their thoughts to wander. Sophie had to twice untack her work on a gown because she couldn't stay focused.

It was early afternoon when Monsieur Foulon entered, shaking the water from his hat. “Bad omen, rain at a funeral,” he muttered. “There was an incident at Lamarque's funeral.”

Sophie froze, and she and Musichetta shared a look. “Incident, Monsieur?”

“Insurgents took control over the funeral; republicans I gathered by that red flag they were waving around. There was a scuffle and an old woman was shot! Have they no respect for the dead? I heard from a milliner that there are actually barricades going up around Paris as we speak. If the fighting gets worse, we'll stay closed tomorrow.” He looked up and frowned, as if only now seeing them properly. “Are you feeling ill, Mademoiselle Vallee? You're quite pale.”

Musichetta nodded, turning her face away. “I'm fine, thank you.”

As Foulon went into the back office, Sophie let out a shaky breath. She leaned against the counter and tried to will her knees to stop shaking. Meeting Musichetta's eyes, she gave a half-smile. It had begun. “Vive la France.”

By the time they left for the day, news of the rebellion was on everyone's lips. Most of the fighting was concentrated around Les Halles and the nearby neighbourhoods, but even so the streets around the Place Saint-Michel were mostly deserted.

“It's quite eerie, is it not?” Sophie asked, watching as the shutters slammed closed on a nearby house.

“I need to get home. I promised Henri I'd stay away from the streets.”

Nodding, Sophie grasped her friend's hands. “If I hear anything, I'll come right over.”

Steering towards Rue Meunier, she found herself dragging her feet. In all honesty, she didn't know where to go. She couldn't be trusted to be alone with her thoughts, at the same time she craved solitude. Although not quite understanding why, she turned left instead of right and soon pushed open the door of Saint Sulpice. The church lay quiet and empty; it was still a while until vespers, and she halted inside the door. It had been years since she found solace in religion, though she considered herself more a deist than an agnostic.

Moving into the church, her footsteps echoing through the air, she looked around. The eyes of the statued faces seemed to follow her, their cool marble unyielding. She sat down in a pew, folded her hands on her lap, and bowed her head. Another set of footsteps came closer and stopped next to her.

“You look troubled, my child.”

She looked up and met the eyes of the priest. All the thoughts she'd buried the entire day threatened to flow out at once. “My husband is part of the uprising. He's fighting at the barricades, and I don't know if he's-” She paused, trying to collect herself. For the first time since that morning, she allowed the thoughts of Enjolras' demise back into the forefront of her mind. She wiped away the tears that had escaped her eyes. “I'm sorry. I don't even know why I came here. I'm normally not a churchgoer.”

He offered her a gentle smile. “God will listen to your prayers either way.”

Standing up, she wrung her hands. “I don't believe in the power of praying. But you do. Please, pray for my husband?”

He nodded. “This time, I will. But a prayer from the heart weighs heavier than one spoken on behalf of another, so I encourage you to find your faith in the prayer. He is always listening.”

She closed her eyes, finding the sound of the priest's voice in prayer soothing. When he finished, she repeated a whispered amen and crossed herself. “Thank you, Father.”

“Do not thank me. I hope your husband returns to you safely.”

When Sophie returned to her flat, she tried to keep herself occupied the best she could. It was no use though; she couldn't keep her concentration on anything for more than a few minutes at a time. Perhaps she could go visit Musichetta, but she couldn't bring herself to move. A part of her hoped, unlikely it may be, that the battle had already been won and Enjolras would come looking for her. She had to be there if he did. Pouring herself a glass of wine, she sat at the kitchen table and waited for the hours to pass.

It was late when she finally stood, relaxed from the wine, and went to bed. Enjolras' scent still lingered on the cool sheets, and she choked back a sob. Had it really not even been a full day since she'd had him in her bed? It felt like weeks. The realisation that it may have been the last time she felt his skin underneath hers broke through her last resolve. Her chest tightened and the tears flowed freely down her face as sobs racked her body.

Between crying jags she must have dozed off, because a knock on the door roused her wide awake. She was out of the bed in seconds and threw a shawl over her chemise. Her fingers trembled as she tried to unlock the door.

“Gavroche!” she gasped when she swung the door open and saw the gamin standing outside. He smelled like sweat and gunpowder, the cockade fastened on his jacket was crooked and a little torn, but his demeanour spoke of his usual energy.

In his hand was a letter, which he reached out towards her. “A letter from the barricade.”

She had to hold on to the doorpost as her knees shook. Her hand was shaking as she accepted the letter. “Thank you. Where are you set up?”

“The wine shop on Rue de la Chanvrerie.”

She nodded, not daring to ask about what was happening on the barricade. Not knowing was better, at least for now. “Is there any-I mean. Do you need anything?”

“Food, if you've any to spare.”

“Yes, of course.” She made a quick dash to fetch half a loaf of brioche leftover from breakfast, and handed it to him. “It's not much.”

“It's spectacular. See you in the new republic,” he added with a toothy grin before leaving.

Sophie closed the door and walked with heavy steps back to the bed, where she sat down to read the letter in the moonlight streaming through the open window. Unfolding the paper, she was greeted by Enjolras' familiar penmanship, written sloppily as if time had been short whilst writing.

_Sophie,_

_for the first time in my life I find myself at a loss for words. I fear the men are losing faith, and I feel powerless to stop it. We've lost good men, but while there is still air in our lungs, we shall defend our barricade. Bahorel is dead, and Jehan was captured and executed before a bargain could be struck. They will not have died in vain._

_If I should not return, please write my parents and tell them I'm sorry for the pain I've caused them. As for you, my only regret is we didn't have enough time together. I love you._

_Antoine_

A wave of nausea rolled over her and she barely had time to grab hold of her bedpan from underneath the bed before emptying the contents of her stomach into it. Leaning back against the bed, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she refused to give in to them. Holding onto the bed for support she stood on shaky legs and went over to the window. The night air was cooling on her clammy skin and she closed her eyes and breathed it in. She was beyond tired, beyond scared and she didn't know what to do.

When dawn came, she was still standing by the window. The sky slowly lightened from inky black into a dozen fiery colours splashing across the sky. Any other morning she would have looked at the blazing sky with a smile, relishing in the feeling of a new day beginning. As it were, she barely noticed it. An echoing boom made her startle, and she gripped the window sill. Another faint crash, easily mistaken for thunder, and her eyes widened when she realised the source. Cannons. They were firing cannons. Her chest was so tight with fear she could hardly breathe, and she sunk to the floor. Squeezing her eyes shut and covering her ears as the cannon fire continued, she began to pray.

–

Enjolras had pictured their revolution in his mind many times, but it had never been like this. From his place on the barricade, he saw the new day rise. Paris lay quiet. Windows shut, doors barred. The people had failed them, and so it would end. The spirit of the men was weakened, it was evident in the hunch of their shoulders and the murmur of their voices.

He stepped into the wine shop, where the rest of the Amis were sitting around a table drinking the distributed brandy out of dingy glasses. He sat down heavily, the chair scraping across the floor. Feuilly offered him a glass, which he declined with a shake of his head.

Courfeyrac broke the silence with a snort. “We went through all this trouble planning our revolution, only to end up back here. Seems symbolic, in a sense.”

“Whose brilliant idea was that anyway?” Feuilly chuckled, looking pointedly at Bossuet.

Bossuet snorted. “I'm not taking all the blame; I was coerced.”

“By Grantaire's wish to be in close proximity to the wine,” Joly laughed.

Grantaire raised his brandy. “And I make no apologies for it! My only sorrow is this revolution won't be long enough to drain the place. What a spectacular sight that would be! Dionysus in his rightful place.”

“Like we practically did at that wine shop in Provence. What was it called again, some fishy name?” Joly asked, then sneezed.

“I have no idea, that whole trip is a blur to me,” Combeferre confessed.

Feuilly chuckled. “A small mercy! I don't think I've ever seen you quite as inebriated as you were then. It was an interesting experience, especially as you were determined to recite the entire dictionary.”

They laughed and Combeferre bowed his head with a smile, accepting the taunt in good humour.

“What's impressive,” Courfeyrac wheezed through laughs, “is how much you remembered before losing your way.”

“Bahorel was in fine form that trip,” Bossuet said when he'd managed to calm his laughter. “He wooed the baker's daughter and the inn's laundry maid in one day, didn't he?”

“And Jehan's dramatic rendition of Aspremont in the town square nearly got us all arrested,” Combeferre reminisced, smiling.

A silence followed at the mention of their fallen comrades. Bahorel's body laid in a back room of the wine shop along with the other fallen, positioned so he might have been sleeping. Jehan's, however, was still missing; the attempts to cross the barricade to retrieve it had failed.

“Actually,” Courfeyrac said. “I think it was Enjolras lecturing that poor shop owner on Robespierre that did the trick. It's a good thing my natural charm and charisma averted the situation.”

Enjolras cracked a smile as they laughed and jeered. For eight years they'd been his friends, his brothers, and now it was all about to end. He tried not to look at the two empty chairs next to Joly, where lost friends should be sitting. They would follow them soon.

–

“Have you any news?” were the first words out of Musichetta's mouth when she let Sophie into her flat. The older woman was pale, the circles underneath her eyes prominent, and her hair was frazzled.

“Gavroche came to my flat last night, with a letter from Enjolras,” Sophie answered as she entered. In the hours since hearing the cannons she'd scarcely dared move from her position on the floor, and it wasn't until she remembered the promise to Musichetta that she'd hurried away. Sinking down on a chair, she choked back tears. “It felt like he was saying goodbye. How can I have hope if he doesn't?”

Musichetta frowned, disbelief marring her features. “What do you mean he doesn't have hope? He's Enjolras, he believes in the revolution as Grantaire believes in the bottle. What else did the letter say?”

Sophie took the letter from her pocket. “Here, read it. I don't mind.” She waited anxiously for Musichetta to finish reading, focusing on a small burn mark on the table.

Musichetta let out a gasp, then a sob. “Oh, Jehan, and Bahorel. I can't-” she gave into the sobs, burying her face in her hand. A few minutes later she sat up straight, and brushed away the remaining tears. “We can't lose hope now,” she finally said, handing the letter back to Sophie. “They will win, and they will live.”

“I pray you're right.” Sophie traced the lettering with her fingers. She'd read the letter a dozen or more times during the night, memorised it entirely, but even so she found it hard to look away from the words. Images of Bahorel and Jehan ran through her mind constantly, but she had no more tears to give.

“Enjolras would chide you for such pessimism,” Musichetta scolded. “I thought you believed in the revolution?”

Sophie sighed. “I believe the Amis will do, and have done, all they can to ensure the success of the revolution, but I don't think it's enough. I'm not proud of these thoughts, but I can't shake them away.”

“It's human to have doubts, it shows you understand there are risks to be considered.”

The words stirred a memory, and Sophie managed a smile. “I told Enjolras something similar, months ago.”

“Then you should follow your own advice.”

It had just gone past noon when they dared to venture outside, desperate for any news of the uprising. There was more activity on the streets than yesterday, though many shops and businesses were still boarded shut. Near the Place Saint-André they approached the bakery, the only shop on the square that was open.

“Do you think there are any news yet?” Musichetta asked as they neared the door.

“I hope so. Oh, I wish there was some news, or that someone from the barricade would contact us.”

A man leaving the bakery stopped in front of them. “Nasty business, that uprising, wouldn't you say?”

Clenching her fist, Sophie raised her chin. “I wouldn't, actually. They're fighting for a better France.”

The man scoffed. “Nonetheless, it's a lost cause. I heard from a friend that all but one barricade has been overthrown.”

Chest tightening, Sophie gasped. She tried to speak, but no words would come out.

“Which one?” Musichetta sounded near tears. “Which barricade?”

“I haven't the slightest, but apparently it's only a matter of time before it's overrun as well.”

He turned away, missing Sophie's stumble as her knees threatened to give out. Grabbing Musichetta's arm, she managed to stay upright.

“Do you think-”

“Don't,” Sophie interrupted. “Not here. Come on.”

They relocated on shaky legs to a quiet corner of the square. Sophie wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. “We don't know if it's them. And if it isn't, we still don't know if they're-” she caught herself on the last word. She took a deep breath before continuing. “We should try not to speculate until we know for sure.”

“I don't know if I can,” Musichetta confessed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief Sophie recognised at Joly's. “Maybe we should try to get to Rue de la Chanvrerie. We could help, if there are any wounded men, and we'll know for sure-”

“No! It's too dangerous, Chetta. We could get killed. Promise me you won't go there.”

Musichetta sighed. “I suppose you're right. It's just so hard, not knowing. I feel as if I'm going mad.”

Sophie clasped her friend's hand, mouth set in a grim line. “Me too.”

A few hours later they went their separate ways. They'd heard no more news of the uprising nor the remaining barricade, which Sophie found both comforting and worrying. As long as there was no news she could pretend the barricade was still standing, that they were still alive and unhurt. If she closed her eyes she could almost see Enjolras in front of her; golden hair set ablaze by the sun, passion and determination marring his features. Courfeyrac smiling as he always did, probably at something Jehan had said. Joly and Combeferre discussing new medical discoveries while Bossuet, Bahorel and Feuilly played cards. Grantaire slumped in a chair, drink in hand and always observing. Her chest ached as she thought of Bahorel and Jehan, remembering loud laughs and gentle smiles.

On Rue du Paon she halted to let a cart drive past. A middle-aged man was driving, a blonde woman by his side. Such a sight was commonplace and Sophie would not have spared it a second glance if she hadn't made eye contact with the woman. The sorrowful and haunted look in her eyes made Sophie's stomach clench. She recognised those feelings in herself, and she wondered what had put that look in the woman's eyes. Was she too waiting to hear news of a loved one, or had such news already reached her?

Stopping outside the door to her tenement, she sighed. She couldn't spend another night alone in her flat without knowing the fate of her friends. It was worth a chance going to Les Halles to find someone, anyone, who could give her news. It would be dangerous; there was no guarantee the National Guard would spare anyone milling about those streets, even a woman, but she couldn't do nothing any longer. She'd decided on it when she noticed the door wasn't shut properly. Her stomach clenched, a feeling she couldn't identify coming over her, and she pushed the door open.

As the early evening light flooded the entrance hall, it was broken by a mass on the floor near the stairs. It shone in red and gold, and Sophie let out a cry.

“Antoine!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the late update. Life and thesis and graduation and stuff like that. Onwards with the show. If you like the chapter, please consider dropping a review!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Les Misérables, only my original characters.

**Chapter 10**

Sophie rushed forward and fell to her knees. At first she thought her eyes had been deceiving her, but it really was him. She ran her hands over his face until she reached his neck. There it was; a steady pulse. She choked back a sob. He was alive.

She shook him slightly. “Antoine? Can you hear me?”

He showed no sign of having heard her, and her chest tightened. Alive he may be, but almost every inch of him was covered in blood and dirt, and she had no idea how extensive his injuries were. How he'd gotten there, she couldn't think about. A miracle, it seemed.

She sat back on her heels, hand on her forehead. “What do I do?” He was too heavy for her to lift up the stairs on her own, and there were more pressing matters. He needed a doctor, and quickly. Doctor Meyer! She'd get Doctor Meyer! Leaning over him, she pressed her lips against his. “I'll be right back, I'm getting help.”

Rising, Sophie sprinted up the stairs, praying the doctor was home. She pounded frantically on the door, and when it finally opened she almost fell into the open doorway.

Docteur Meyer reached out to steady her. “Good Lord, Madame. What's happened? Are you injured?”

She shook her head vehemently. "It's my husband, please, I need your help. Come quickly!”

He followed her downstairs, and as she fell to her knees next to Enjolras, his jaw dropped. "Good Lord! We need to get him to a hospital.”

"No!" She looked up at him, hands still on Enjolras' chest, barely containing her sobs. "Please, no. If you take him to a hospital they'll arrest him.”

The doctor frowned. "Arrest him? What-" he trailed off. "He was in the uprising.”

“Please help him. I can't live without my husband. Please!”

The doctor hesitated, then sprung into action. Bending down next to he felt around for injuries, and then looked at Sophie. “Help me lift him up, we'll take him to your flat.”

Together they managed to lift Enjolras' lifeless body and carry him upstairs. They positioned him on the bed, and Sophie stepped back as Meyer started his examination. Lingering by the dresser, she wrung her hands. Minutes went by, the only sounds in the room the doctor's occasional mumbling and her own erratic breaths.

Finally, he turned to her. “Madame-”

She rushed forward to the bed. As she glanced down at Enjolras, bile rose in her throat. His bare chest was covered in crusty blood, and his right shoulder was swollen and bruised. There was a bullet hole on his left side, close to his ribs, where a steady stream of blood was running down his side. “Oh my god...”

Meyer cursed and pressed against the wound with his hand. “Focus, Madame. I need you to run to my flat, and get my medical bag. It's right by the door, you can't miss it. Go, now!”

Doing as she was told, Sophie was back in the flat not two minutes later. “Is this the one?”

He nodded. “Yes, perfect. Come, if we're going to save him I will need your help.”

Her heart was racing as she knelt by the doctor's side, eyes not leaving Enjolras' unmoving body. His skin was pallid, but his chest was moving steadily up and down. She was barely aware of the tasks the doctor gave her, but she couldn't contain a cry when she saw another bullet hole, this time on his upper thigh.

It felt like hours before the doctor sat back and wiped his forehead. “I've no idea how this young man is still alive; the wound to his thigh should have killed him within the hour. He must have gotten some medical care prior to you finding him. Someone did a crude job of cleaning and binding these wounds, but they probably saved his life.”

Sophie hesitated. “Will he live?” She was afraid of the answer, but to her relief, the doctor nodded.

“I believe so.”

She collapsed on the floor, and could no longer hold back the tears. “He'll live?”

There was a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Yes, Madame, but he's still unstable. I'd prefer it if he went to the hospital, but I'll do my best to treat him here. Let us pray he makes it through the night.”

She flinched as she watched him stitch up the laceration near Enjolras' hairline, but the patient made no protest other than a small groan. Wetting a cloth, Sophie set out to wash the dried blood off her husband's body, gently dabbing around the bandages. 

“Is it a bad sign, that he hasn't woken up?” she asked as she ran her hand down the side of Enjolras' face. His skin was clammy and warm, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

“Not necessarily,” the doctor said, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. “As long as he's responsive and his condition doesn't worsen there is no need to worry just yet.”

Looking down, Sophie noticed for the first time her hands and the front of her skirt were covered in blood. Her stomach turned, but she forced it down. “I should clean up.”

Doctor Meyer stood to leave. “I'll give you some privacy.”

“Thank you,” she said, fighting tears. “Truly.”

\--

Looking back, Sophie had no recollection of how she got through those first few days after the barricades fell and Enjolras somehow ended up on her doorstep. He spent most of that time lingering on the edge of unconsciousness; drifting in and out of feverish dreams in which he called out the names of his friends and gave orders as if he was still on the barricade, and Sophie could do little but sit by his side and dab his hot forehead with damp cloths.

On the third night, Sophie dozed on and off on the chair next to the bed. The doctor had retreated to his own flat for the night, with instructions for Sophie to come get him if there was any change. She jerked awake and looking confusingly around the room. The first rays of the sun were filtering through the room, bathing everything in a soft light, something else had awoken her. Then she felt it; a soft but still there pressure on her hand. Looking up, she met Enjolras' blue eyes.

“Antoine!” she gasped and fell to her knees. She touched his face and felt relief that his skin was not longer burning with fever. His eyes drifted closed for a second at her touch. “Thank God,” she breathed, pushing back against the urge to cry in relief.

He licked his dry lips. “Water,” he croaked out and then winced, as if the word had caused him physical pain.

She helped him hold his head up and took the cup from the nightstand and held it up to his mouth. He drank deeply, then relaxed against the pillows. Looking around, his eyes settled on Sophie again. “Sophie,” he whispered, voice rough.

Tears fell down her face, but she smiled through them as she kissed his hand. She heard the front door open but didn't look away.

Doctor Meyer appeared next to the bed. “Welcome back, Monsieur. You gave us quite a scare.”

Enjolras looked from the doctor to Sophie, and wet his dry lips. “What am I doing here?”

Her brow furrowed, and she wiped away the tears. “What do you mean? You're in my flat, surely you recognise it?”

“I thought...” He shook his head slightly. “I thought I was dead.”

Her stomach dropped, and she squeezed his hand. “No, no. You're alive.”

“You've had quite a fever for the past days,” the doctor said. “I shall need to examine you, to make sure your wounds are healing properly.”

Giving his approval with a silent nod, Enjolras lay back as Meyer unwrapped the bandages and checked the wounds. He made no movement through the prodding, only flinched and clenched his jaw as pain coursed through him. Sophie held his hand tightly through this, as if needing to have a physical reminder that he was alright.

“Your wounds are healing nicely,” the doctor finally said. “It's going to be a long road to recovery, but you're young and healthy and that is a good thing.”

“Thank you, Doctor. From the bottom of my heart,” Sophie said earnestly.

He smiled. “There is no need to thank me, Madame.” Looking from Enjolras and then back to Sophie, he nodded slightly. “I'll give you two some privacy.”

As the door closed, Enjolras spoke. “How did I get here?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. I came home, and you were laying in the entrance hall.” She closed her eyes against the image of that day. Opening her eyes, a question formed which she didn't want to know the answer to, but had to know. That their revolution had failed she was aware of, but it didn't mean all was lost. “What about the others?”

His jaw tightened, and he swallowed hard. “Dead.”

She gasped, hands flying up to cover her mouth. “Everyone?”

“You should have let me die,” he whispered and then turned his head away.

Choking back sobs, she exhaled shakily. She couldn't let herself grieve for the others, not now. Enjolras needed her. “You don't mean that,” she said softly. Reaching out, she touched his uninjured shoulder gently. “Antoine, please.”

He made no reply, and she didn't know if he was asleep or just faking. She sat for several minutes, giving him a chance to reply. When he didn't, she rose on shaky knees and left the flat. Stopping outside the door, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to breathe calmly. Her chest was tight with unshed tears, and she bit her lip until it hurt. There was no sound from inside the apartment. After a minute or two, she pushed herself off the door and headed upstairs.

Doctor Meyer opened at the first knock. “Is everything all right?” he asked, looking worriedly at her.

“Yes. I need to go to Antoine's flat to collect some of his things. Could you stay with him while I'm gone? I don't think he should be alone.”

“Of course.”

Enjolras was asleep when she re-entered the flat, his breaths deep but harsh. She hated to leave him, but his clothes were bloody and ruined, and she doubted he'd want that reminder of what had been lost. There would be enough reminders, for all of them. She pressed a kiss to his forehead before grabbing her two valises and heading out. Once outside she blinked against the harsh sunlight. She hadn't left her flat in days, and the sounds of the bustling city were slightly startling. Walking quickly to Enjolras' flat, she banished all thoughts from her mind other than the task at hand. When she arrived, she let herself in with her passkey and stopped inside the door.

It had been barely a week since she'd been there, but it felt like years. Looking around, she started packing as much of his belongings as she could. As she started gathering his books, the grief she'd pushed back caught up with her. She sank down on the bed, fighting tears. Realising she was sitting on something hard, she reached down to grab the object. Pulling it out, she saw it was A Discourse on Inequality. The binding was cracked and worn, the crinkled pages telling of many readings by the owner. Sobs overtook her; tears blurring her vision and her chest tightening. A part of her had hoped her friends would escape the uprising unhurt and Enjolras' words, expected as they had been, had still come as a surprise. She could hardly believe they were gone. Witty Bahorel, the good-humoured Bossuet and Feuilly's dreams to deliver the world. Jehan's gentle soul and beautiful poetry, Grantaire's cynicism and Joly's kindness. Combeferre's wisdom and philosophical mindset, and Courfeyrac; always fierce and warm.

She sat on the bed sobbing until she felt like she would burst. Her throat was raw, her eyes were swollen and there was a great weight in her chest. Drying her tears, she made a decision to lock away her grief. Enjolras needed her to be strong, now that he wasn't. She took a fiacre back to her flat, ignoring the curious look the driver gave her dishevelled appearance.

When she entered, the doctor stood from his place by the bed to meet her by the door. Enjolras was still lying unmoving in bed, looking up at the ceiling.

“I'm concerned about his mental state,” Meyer said, voice low. “The physical recovery is dependant on the patient's will to get better.”

Sophie swallowed hard. “It's only been a few hours since he woke, perhaps he just needs some time? He's been through quite an ordeal.”

He nodded. “Let us hope so.”

She approached the bed, putting down the bags by the dresser. “I went by your flat and got as many of your things that I could fit. I wasn't able to get all your books though, but I'll try some other day to get the rest.”

“Don't bother,” he answered, still not looking at her.

Tears burned at the corner of her eyes. “Antoine, please.”

He didn't answer, so she sighed and went back to where Doctor Meyer was still standing, watching them. She smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry.”

“You have no reason to apologise,” he said. “This is a lot for a young woman to take on by herself. Do you have any friends or family in the area who can assist you?”

There was a stab of pain in her stomach. “I lost a lot of friends in the uprising, and I have no family in the city.” Then she gasped. “Oh my god, Musichetta! Doctor, I hate to ask, but I need to run out again. Do you mind staying? I won't be long.”

“I don't mind at all. Take all the time you need,” he reassured her.

She took care to splash some water on her face and re-pin her hair before leaving the flat again, and a wave of guilt rolled over her as she hurried down the stairs. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten about Musichetta for three days, but what was more worrisome was that she hadn't contacted Sophie either. Walking through the streets was peculiar; there were no signs of the uprising in this part of the city, people were going about their lives as they usually did and all businesses were open. It made her sad, but mostly it made her angry. The people had betrayed them when it mattered the most. Their blood was on the city's hands, on the hands of those who stood by and did nothing.

She knocked on Musichetta's door for several minutes, and the longer the door remained closed the more worried she became. She'd just decided to go down to the concierge's flat and ask for the spare passkey when she heard a noise from inside the flat. The door opened, and she gasped. Musichetta was pale with dark circles underneath her red and puffy eyes, her hair was unbound and unkempt and she was dressed in a stained morning dress with one of Joly's coats thrown on top. Without a word, she fell forwards into Sophie's arms and started sobbing.

Leading her friend inside the flat, Sophie was struck by the state of it. Both Musichetta and Joly were tidy people and their flat was always immaculate, but now it looked like it had been ransacked. Clothes and books were strewn all over, an overturned wine bottle was on the kitchen table and the shutters were closed, leaving the flat in only a dim light. Sitting down on the sofa, Musichetta wiped at her face with a sullied handkerchief.

“I can't believe they're gone,” she sobbed.

Clasping her friend's hand, Sophie tried not to cry too. “We must be strong, Chetta. It's what they would have wanted.”

“I just- I don't know what to do. How do we go on after something like this? They're all dead.”

“Not Enjolras.”

Musichetta looked up sharply. “What?”

“Enjolras is alive. I don't know how, but somehow he survived. He's in my flat, badly wounded, so I can't stay long.” She spoke of it almost mechanically; the past days had taken such a toll on her emotional state that she was completely drained.

“Oh my god.”

Sophie wrung her hands. “He only woke this morning. It's bad, but I think he'll make it.” 

Musichetta wrapped Joly's coat tighter around her. “Maybe more of them made it out? Maybe...” she trailed off, seeing Sophie's shaking head.

“Enjolras said no one else made it. I'm so sorry, Chetta.”

Hiding her face in her hands, Musichetta started crying again. Sophie sat helplessly by her side, knowing there was nothing she could say that would offer her friend any comfort. Guilt welled up inside her. Musichetta was obviously in no condition to be alone, but neither was Enjolras. A while later, Sophie spoke.

“I can't leave you like this. Have you been to work at all in the past days?”

Shaking her head, Musichetta sniffed. “I suppose now Foulon has dismissed me for missing so many days, so what does it matter?”

“You should go back,” Sophie prodded. “Locking yourself in here will do you no good. Foulon is a fair man, he'll understand the reason for your absence.”

“What about you? You haven't been back either, have you?”

Sophie shook her head. “I can't. Enjolras is still unstable, I can't leave him for hours at a time. Doctor Meyer is with him now, but he needs to go back to the Necker soon. He's not doing well, and I...” she stopped herself. The tight ball in her chest in which she had locked away her tears threatened to spill open. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she forced it shut again. “If I lose him now, I will not survive.”

Musichetta smiled sadly. “Go back to him. I'll be all right.”

Sophie squeezed her friend's hand. “Come and visit me soon, my friend.”

–

Despite the melancholia that settled over his mind, Enjolras physical state improved quickly. He resisted the recovery though and for each passing day he didn't rise from the bed, even though he probably could, Sophie became more worried. No amount of urging from her could get him up, and he rarely spoke. To see him like that, so unlike the fierce and passionate man she'd fallen in love with, was heartbreaking. She spent her nights on a pallet on the floor, trying to quench her sobs as not to disturb him.

One day almost two weeks after the uprising, Sophie had had enough. Enjolras was still in bed, staring sightlessly at the ceiling as he did on most days, and she'd just taken back his uneaten breakfast to the kitchen. Looking at the untouched food, something inside her snapped. Spinning around, she marched over to the bed.

“Antoine, you need to get up.”

“Why?” his voice was low and rough with disuse.

“Because I'm asking you to. I'm your wife, and you made me a promise. Or have you forgotten that?”

He looked at her, but his eyes were dull and lifeless. He said nothing.

“Doctor Meyer said if you don't get up walking soon, you might not ever.”

Still, there was no answer. Gripping her skirt, she decided on a different approach. Leaning over the bed, she grabbed his left hand and pulled. Automatically, he followed until he was sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His right arm was still tightly bound to his body in a sling, and his rumpled shirt was half open and showed the bandage that was wrapped around his torso.

She sank to her knees in front of him. “You have to try to get better. If not for yourself, then for me, or your friends. They would want you to get better.”

His eyes flashed. Slowly and shakily he stood up, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of the old Enjolras. “They're dead. You don't know what they'd want.”

She stood as well. “They were my friends too!” The words echoed in the room.

His face darkened. “You blame me for their deaths?”

“Of course I don't! How can you even say that?” Stepping in close, she clasped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes even though they were watering with tears. The stubble on his cheeks was prickly against her hands. “Do you think a single man was on that barricade out of anything else but his own free will? They died for what they believed in.” Tears blurred her vision. "I may have lost them, but I'll be damned if I lose you too.”

"Maybe I should have been lost," he mumbled, and the words hit her like a ton of bricks.

“Is that what you wish for? That you would have died on the barricade?”

He pushed her hands away. “Don't you understand, Sophie, I was meant to die! I had accepted it, but life cheated me on my one wish.”

She recoiled as though struck. “I need to go.”

A wave of frustration rolled over Enjolras as the door slammed shut behind her. He sighed. He hadn't meant to lose his temper like that, nor say the things he did. It was difficult to now try to think of his life as anything else than wasted. The guilt consumed him, and seeing Sophie's weary eyes and hearing her sobs during the night only added to that. Still, he couldn't bring himself to reach out to her.

Taking a deep breath, he winched when the pain in side flared up. Sinking down on the bed, he prodded the wound slightly. His wounds were healing quickly, and soon he'd only have pale scars as a reminder of what almost had happened. The sling keeping his shoulder immobile was more of a hindrance than an aid, and with a frustrated sigh he flung it over his head and to the floor. He looked around the flat; for the first time in weeks noting the overflowing wardrobe and bookcase where his belongings were now sitting alongside hers, and the pallet where she spent her nights pushed up against the wall.

Closing his eyes, he could practically hear the cannons and the screams, smell the blood and the gunpowder. Most of the final attack and the time after he couldn't remember, and he hadn't decided yet if that was a good thing or not. It all seemed part of some feverish dream, and he couldn't distinguish what was real or not. There was only pain.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own anything but my original characters.

**Chapter 11**

Before she'd realised it, Sophie had reached the Place Saint-Michel. Brushing the tears from her face, she looked up at the empty Café Musain. It was closed, the door barred and an air of abandonment about the establishment. Musichetta had told her that Madame Houcheloup, having been spooked by the rebellion, had fled the city. It seemed ironic in a sense, that the headquarters of Les Amis de l'ABC died with its members. The grief in her chest was so great it made her want to scream. For her friends, for Enjolras. For the new world that was supposed to happen but didn't.

Pushing back a wayward strand of hair, she contemplated what to do next. She wasn't ready to go back to the flat; Enjolras' words had been heartbreaking, and she couldn't bear to see him like that right now. With a resigned sigh, she took a last look at the building which had been like a second home to her. There was nothing left there now but memories of a brighter time, of laughter and of warmth. Despite the summer heat, she shivered.

She wandered to the Jardin du Luxembourg to clear her head. The gardens were in full bloom, but she barely saw its beauty. Sitting on a bench on the main promenade, she closed her eyes. The past weeks had required a strength she didn't have, and she had no idea how she would survive if Enjolras didn't improve soon. Not for the first time, she missed her brother. If she tried hard enough, she could almost feel him at her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and reassuring her that everything would be fine.

A voice broke through her stillness. “Mademoiselle Guilhon?”

Opening her eyes, she felt like fleeing. “It's Madame Enjolras,” she replied coolly.

Bouchard looked surprised. “The name is familiar to me...” he seemed puzzled, then his brow raised to almost meet his hairline. “From Le Perchoir on New Year's Eve, and the riot at General Lamarque's house. The leader of the Chanvrerie barricade. He's your husband?”

Her heart was racing. He didn't know Enjolras was alive. Standing up, she wrapped her shawl tighter around herself. “He was.” She could barely look at him. Had he been there, at the barricade? Was it his bullet that ended Courfeyrac's life, or Combeferre's or Joly's? Had he been the one to execute Jehan? “I suppose you are satisfied with the outcome of the uprising. The order has been regained, the King is still on his throne.”

“I never rejoice in lives lost.”

Her face softened. “I lost friends on the barricades.” She squared her shoulders. “May I inquire about the whereabouts of their bodies? I wish to give words to their families, to allow them a chance of burying their sons.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, but that is quite impossible. The bodies of all who perished in the uprising stayed in the morgue for a time, but if unclaimed they were then disposed of.”

An image of her friends' bodies discarded like garbage flashed before her eyes, and a wave of nausea rolled over her. She grabbed the side of the bench to steady herself, and shook off Bouchard's hand on her arm.

“I'm truly sorry for your loss, Madame.”

“I must go,” she muttered, mostly to herself, before hurrying off.

She was hot and out of breath by the time she climbed the stairs to her flat. She hesitated outside the door, not knowing what would be waiting for her on the other side. Pushing it open, a flicker of hope ran through her. Enjolras was sitting at the kitchen table, a determined set in his jaw despite the dark circles underneath his eyes.

“Hello,” he said tentatively.

“Hello.” She hung her shawl on the hook by the door. “I'm glad to see you out of bed.” The words felt strange coming out of her mouth, and she chided herself for the distance that was present between them. They may as well have been miles apart.

“Will you sit with me?” His eyes were still dull, but it was a step in the right direction.

Sitting, she had to stop herself from reaching for his hand. “I'm sorry for storming out. It was childish of me.”

“It's nothing less than I deserve.”

“That's not true. You are a good person, Antoine. We can't change what's happened, all we can do now is try to move forward.”

He looked down. “How can I move forward when I no longer have a purpose in this world?”

“You do. You may believe your destiny was tied to the revolution and only to that, but I don't. There is much more to you than that.” He didn't answer, and she braced herself for what she had to say next. There was no point keeping it from him. “There's something else,” she added hesitantly. Relaying the information she'd learned from Bouchard, she watched as the little fire he had regained vanished. “We can still write to their families. I'm sure news of the uprising will have already reached them, but a letter from a friend will be welcome, I'm sure of it.”

As he shook his head, her heart sank. “On the contrary, I believe a letter from me would be most unwelcome. They'd not want a letter from someone with such a large part in their son's demise.”

“I will write them then,” Sophie said. “It's what I would have wanted, if I hadn't been there when Joseph died.”

She spent the rest of the evening composing letters to each of the Amis' families, including one for Feuilly though there was nowhere to send it. More than once she had to put down the pen and breathe deeply as not to start crying and ruin the ink. The letter addressed to Courfeyrac's mother was the hardest one to write, and the only one where she did break out in tears. Enjolras said nothing; he had retreated to the bed and if he heard her crying, he didn't show it. Whatever progress they'd made that afternoon seemed to have vanished. Drying her tears, she resigned herself to the fact that the man she loved would never become again what he once was.

–

Frustration had become a familiar feeling for Sophie, and it was racing through her veins as she sped through the streets of Paris. She and Enjolras had had yet another argument, and she had to leave before saying something she'd regret. His physical strength was improving with each passing day, but the melancholy of his mind had not wavered despite her pleading and begging.

Crossing the street, she couldn't help but feel resentment towards the people she saw. How was it fair that they were happily going on with their lives after what had happened? That brave men were dead or changed forever and no one seemed to care?

Reaching her destination, she sighed. She'd not been to the shop on Rue Hermel since Lamarque's funeral, but it seemed that little had changed there either. She could see Musichetta through the window, and braced herself before entering.

“Sophie!” the older woman smiled. “How lovely to see you.”

“Lovely to see you here. I assume Foulon wasn't hard to convince of your return?”

Shaking her head, Musichetta straightened out her apron. “Not at all. He was a bit miffed, but understanding when I explained the circumstances.” She let out a frail smile. “It's been good for me, working again. Occupying myself with something, and not staying cooped up alone all day.”

“That makes me happy to hear,” Sophie said, but her smile felt forced.

“How have you been? And Enjolras, how is he faring?”

Thankfully, Sophie was liberated from answering by the opening of the office door. Foulon looked thoroughly surprised to see her and said so as he approached.

“Mam'selle Vallee told me what happened. I was sorry to hear about your husband.”

Sophie hesitated. What had Musichetta told him? “Thank you, Monsieur. I hope I didn't cause you too much trouble with my actions.”

He waved her off. “Nonsense. Are you inquiring about a position?”

“No, Monsieur. I simply came to apologise, and to see my friend.”

He nodded. “Of course. As long as it doesn't interfere with her work.” Donning his hat, he left the shop.

“Has he been very cross with me?” Sophie asked once the door was closed behind him.

“Not very. When I came back, I told him your husband was greatly wounded in the uprising and that you were caring for him.”

Without warning, Sophie started to cry. Covering her face with her hands, she was only half aware of Musichetta wrapping an arm around her shoulder and leading her over to the stool by the workbench.

“He's not getting better?”

Sophie tried to dab the tears away with her handkerchief. “Physically he is, but otherwise... He's so broken, Chetta. He barely speaks, hardly eats. It's like he died on that barricade and it was a ghost that came back to me.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Shaking her head, Sophie exhaled sharply. “No. I keep wishing that something I say will get through to him. I don't know what to do if it doesn't. I love him, but I can't stand idly by and watch him destroy himself like this.” She squared her shoulders, already forcing her emotions back inside. There was no use of crying. “Sometimes I think that Courfeyrac would know exactly what to do, or Combeferre. Then I remember, and...” she trailed off. “I'll manage, somehow.”

Musichetta frowned. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't want to burden you, you've had enough things to deal with.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I should get back. I still don't like to leave him alone for too long.”

Musichetta clasped her hand. “If you need anything, please let me know.”

Sophie took a detour home. While what she'd told Musichetta was true, she couldn't help but linger a bit longer. Every second in the flat was a challenge, and she was exhausted. Walking by the shops and ateliers on Rue Pierre, she halted. In a shop window, lying on billowing red velvet were beautifully painted fans, and her stomach clenched. She'd no idea if any of them were Feuilly's creations, but merely seeing them felt like a punch in the stomach.

Rushing from the window before she burst into tears, she went by the market to pick up some food and a copy of today's Le National before heading home. The sky darkened quickly with the promise of heavy rain, and she'd barely made it inside before the heavens opened with a thundering downpour. Opening the flat door, she was quite surprised to see Enjolras was out of bed. He was standing by the open window looking out over the city, leaning heavily on a cane. His leg wasn't healing as fast as the rest of his injuries, and he still relied on the cane most of the time. His shoulders were slumped, but even in his despair he was beautiful.

“There's food if you're hungry,” she said by way of greeting, putting the items down on the kitchen table before going into the bedroom. She had pulled the pins from her hair and was tying it back with a piece of linen when a loud thud made her jump. Going back into the kitchen, she gasped. One of the chairs had been toppled over, and Enjolras was leaning over the table with a look of pure anguish on his face.

She rushed over, placing a hand on his back. His body was trembling. “Antoine, what's wrong?”

He didn't answer, but her eyes were drawn to a notice on the first page of the newspaper. She read the words aloud with a frown. “Revolutionary Charles Jeanne, leader of the Saint-Merry barricade was captured today after weeks on the run. He is set to stand trial alongside twenty-one others for their involvement in the failed uprising in June which took place at General Lamarque's funeral.” She looked up. “Oh, Antoine. I'm so sorry.”

“I should stand with them,” he muttered.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Straightening, his hand clenched around the cane. “It's my place to stand with them, to show that I support the revolution until my last breath.”

She put her hands on her hips. “What would that accomplish, to become a martyr in court?”

He huffed. “You wouldn't understand.”

The anger came from deep inside her, having been repressed for weeks and now bursting forward like a tidal wave. “Then make me understand!” she was yelling now and by the look of his flinch, it caught him by as much surprise as it did her. “Make me understand why you would sacrifice this second chance you've gotten. Do you have so little regard for your own life?”

“It's what my fate was supposed to be! I was never meant to survive the revolution, all I do now is live a borrowed life.”

“What about me?” she whispered, eyes filling with tears. ”You made me a promise that you would try to come back alive. It's been weeks, but you're not even trying!”

He observed her grimly. “I apologise if I'm not recovering from almost dying fast enough for your liking,” he said coolly.

She clenched her hands in frustration. “That's not what I meant, and you know it. I love you, Antoine, and it's breaking my heart to see you like this. You've always been a man of your word, but if you want to take the coward's way out you are not the person I thought you were. I'm not even sure your friends would recognise you.”

His body stiffened, the grip on his cane tightening. But he said nothing, and Sophie's heart sank. Another failed attempt at getting through to him. Blinking back tears, she moved passed him to the bedroom. She stopped by the open window, looking out at the city distorted by the heavy rain. There was a scuffling from somewhere behind her, and she startled when she felt Enjolras' hand on her shoulder.

“It seems all I've done these past weeks is cause you pain.”

She turned to face him, and his hand dropped to his side. “This is not about me, Antoine. No matter what I say, it won't change how you feel. I can't make you accept what's happened, you're going to have to move on on your own,” she said gently.

“I don't know how.” He seemed ashamed of this admission, not meeting her eyes. “Not speaking up is turning my back on everything I believe in.” His face was open as he looked at her, and she saw a glimpse of the boy she'd fallen in love with. “What do I do?”

“I can't make that decision for you.” She wrung her hands. “You used to believe in a life after the revolution. Has that changed as well?”

He met her eyes. “I didn't think it would be like this.” Straightening his shoulders, he reached for her hand. “But I made you a promise, one which I intend to keep.” Touching her face, he leaned down and touched his lips to hers. When he pulled back she felt a wetness on her cheeks. He brushed the tears away with a frown.

“I'm sorry,” she half-laughed through the tears, squeezing his arms. “It's just...I've missed you.”

Enjolras drew her into his body, wrapping his arms steadily around her and letting his cane fall to the floor. Mindful of his injuries, she pulled him closer and buried her face in the base of his throat. To feel his warmth for the first time in weeks caused the tears to fall faster. It was a cathartic cry, bringing with it all the fear, frustration and sadness she'd kept locked inside. When the tears had stopped she felt lighter, like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She heard him mumble something against her hair, and pulled back.

“What was that?”

He half-smiled and pushed her hair away from her face. “I've missed you too.”

A warmth spread through her as she smiled. It seemed they were finally going in the right direction.

–

“I noticed you haven't been to work lately. Did you resign?” Enjolras asked a few days later as they were sat at the kitchen table. True to his word, his disposition was improving. There was colour in his cheeks, which were covered in thick scruff, and there was a straightness of his shoulders that she was sure hadn't been there the day before.

“I did. I couldn't leave you alone in your condition, so I had no another choice.” She sighed, putting down her mending. “I should see about getting a new position somewhere, now that you are better. My savings are meagre at best, and won't support us for long.”

He closed the book he'd been reading. “There's no need for that, I have more than enough money to support us both.”

“I don't want your money, Antoine.”

“That makes two of us, but that's how it is,” he replied sardonically, scratching his cheek. “The money is mine whether I choose to use them or not, and I have no doubt that we will need them.”

“Speaking of money,” she started slowly. “I think you should write to your parents. I'm sure they are beside themselves with worry.”

“You didn't write them?”

Sophie shook her head. “I didn't want to until I knew...”

His eyes softened. “Until you knew I would make it.” He reached for her hand. “I'll write it immediately, it's already long overdue.”

“I think that's a good idea.”

They sat in a comfortable silence while he penned the letter to his parents. Once he was finished, he scribbled the address on the missive and sealed it.

“I'll leave right away,” he said. He leant in to kiss her cheek, and she giggled when his beard scratched her face.

“You need a shave, chéri.”

He chuckled. “I do, don't I?”

As he shaved, she watched him. His wounds were healing quickly, the laceration near his hairline was barely visible anymore, and he now only needed the cane when walking long distances or after being on his feet for a long period of time.

He gave an amused look. “Am I passable?”

She flushed at having been caught staring. Although he was still too thin for her liking, he almost looked like himself again. “More than.” Stepping forward, she cupped his face, running her thumbs over his smooth cheeks. “I'm never allowing you to grow a beard again.”

He chuckled and pulled her close before kissing her soundly.

Once Enjolras had left, his hat pulled down firmly to cover his hair and eyes, Sophie attempted to straighten out the flat. It was no easy task; the flat was clearly not intended for two people to be living there, and books and clothing were cluttering practically every surface. As she stood in front of the bookcase, wondering if there was any way to fit all their books on there, there was a knock on the door.

“It's open,” she called out absent-mindedly, and managed to squeeze in her copy of Odes et Ballades before looking up. “Doctor Meyer!” Putting down the books in her arms on the table, she wiped her hands on her skirt. “I apologise for the mess, I wasn't expecting company.”

“Oh, don't you worry about that.” He removed his hat. “I met your husband on my way up. He was looking well.”

She nodded. “He is doing much better.”

The doctor smiled. “That makes me very happy to hear.”

“I want to thank you again, for helping us. He wouldn't have survived if it weren't for you.”

“There is no need to thank me, truly. I was merely doing my duty as a doctor.”

After the Doctor left, she continued her tidying. As the sky darkened outside, she started to get worried. Enjolras had been gone quite a while. Though she knew he was more than capable to take care of himself, he was still not fully healed from his injuries. Finally, after what seemed like forever, she heard his limping footsteps outside the door.

She stood as he entered. “I didn't think you'd be gone so long, I was worried.”

“I'm sorry, that was not my intention,” he said, removing his hat and coat and putting the cane by the door. He joined her and touched her cheek. “It was nicer than I thought to be outside in the open air, so I tarried a bit.”

“Of course.” She straightened his waistcoat. “It's time to change your bandages, is it not?”

They had become efficient in the routine over the past weeks, so it took no time to clean the wounds and change the bandages out for fresh ones. They undressed in silence, and she got into the bed. His jaw clenched as he sank down next to her, and she laid a hand on his arm.

“Are you alright, chéri?”

“I'm fine,” he spoke through clenched teeth, then turned his head towards her. “It helps, having you here.”

Finding his hand in the darkness, she squeezed it tightly. “I'm not going anywhere.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

“Antoine!”

Eyes snapping open, Enjolras looked around the room. The dim light of dawn shone into the flat, illuminating it with a warm glow. His eyes settled on Sophie. Her eyes were wide and panicked, and the hand on his shoulder was trembling.

“You were dreaming,” she whispered. “Another nightmare?”

He nodded, trying to get his racing heart under control. It was the third time that week he'd woken up covered in sweat and with the cries of his friends' pleading voices echoing in his ears. He could no longer tell if they were dreams or memories. Sitting up, pain flared up from the wound to his ribs and he bit back a groan. Pushing his damp hair away from his forehead, he felt Sophie's hand stroke his back gently. He closed his eyes and took slow breaths until the voices had faded away. For now.

“Can I help?” she asked at length.

He turned back to look at her. “You already are.”

Smiling, she tugged on his hand. “It's still early, lie down with me.”

He complied, lying on his back and letting her rest her head on his shoulder. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the scent of her hair. The warmth of her body against his, her fingers making languid circles on his chest, all grounded him in the present.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, her breath fanning across his skin.

“Why I'm here.”

Her body stiffened, and he opened his eyes to meet hers. They were wide with worry, and he stroked her cheek.

“I wasn't talking in a philosophical sense, I meant how I got here after the barricade. I had your address on a note in my pocket, but who found it, and why did they bring me here? Why didn't they turn me over to the gendarme?”

Sophie frowned. “You don't remember anything?”

Enjolras shook his head, hand absent-mindedly tracing up and down her arm. “Not much. I remember being in pain, and a voice telling me to lie still, but not much else.” He sighed. “I may have to accept that I'll never know.”

She kissed his chest. “I wish I could give you answers, help you find peace.” A while later she glanced at the window with a groan and started to sit up. “I need to get up, I have errands to run. I should go see Musichetta as well, I've not seen her in a while.” Looking down at him, she smiled. “I'll try to get you that goat's cheese you like at the market.”

Chuckling, he sat up. “Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

There was an ease to their morning routine; he helped lacing her stays as he did every morning, placing a kiss on the back of her neck when he was finished, and she dashed down to the bakery around the corner to buy them breakfast. She kissed him with a smile before leaving for the day, and he attempted to straighten up the flat.

She returned a few hours later, a basket of food on her arm and with a scowl on her face. “I couldn't find the cheese,” she said, putting the basket down a bit harder than necessary before putting the food away in the larder.

Enjolras looked up from his place at the table. “That can't be the reason for your bad mood.”

She sighed, removing her bonnet and pelisse. “No. I couldn't find Musichetta; she wasn't at home or at work. It's making me worried.” Walking up to him, she smiled. “What are you doing?”

Gesturing to the book in front of him, he shrugged. “Some reading. Being this idle is making me restless.”

She ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps you could resume your law studies?”

He gave a content smile. “Perhaps.” Without warning, he pulled her into his lap. “For now though, I have other plans.”

His kiss swallowed her giggle and her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, pressing their chests together. She tilted her head back as his kisses rained down to her neck and sighed. She'd be content spending the rest of her life in his arms, just like this.

The knock on the door made them both startle.

Pulling back slightly, Enjolras met her worried eyes. “Are you expecting company?”

Shaking her head, Sophie stood. “No. It could be Musichetta, though.” Smoothing down her dress and hair, she walked nervously to the door. As far as she knew, nobody but Musichetta knew Enjolras was alive, and she'd prefer it to stay that way. With the start of the trial for the insurgents set for only a couple of weeks away, she was becoming increasingly scared they would be found out. Opening the door halfway, she was surprised to see an older gentleman she didn't recognise. Quite short and plump, he wore the clothes of a bourgeois servant. “Yes?”

He lifted his hat. “Good day. Is this the current residence of Monsieur Antoine Enjolras?”

Sophie's fingers clenched around the door. “Who is inquiring?”

He took out a letter from his coat pocket and handed it to her. “Monsieur Gillenormand, Madame.”

As she accepted the letter with a furrowed brow, he bowed lightly and disappeared down the stairs. Closing the door, Sophie met Enjolras' eyes. “Isn't Gillenormand-”

“Marius' grandfather.” His face had grown pale, and she hurried to hand him the letter. She stood impatiently as he opened and read it, following as the emotions of his face changed from confusion to relief. Finally, he looked up at her. “Marius is alive.”

She gasped. “He is?”

Enjolras rubbed his neck. “The letter is from him. He's wounded but well, and is staying with his grandfather at Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, she sank down on the chair next to him. “That is good news! What else does he write?”

Enjolras' eyes scanned the letter again before answering. “He's inviting us to dinner, this Friday. He also wants us to meet his fiancée, Cosette.”

The name struck a familiar chord with Sophie, and she frowned. A memory of a teasing Courfeyrac drawing the name from a reluctant Marius rose within her. “Is she the same girl he was talking about this spring?”

Nodding, Enjolras put the letter down. “She must be.”

Sensing he was retreating into himself, she touched his hand. “What are you thinking?”

He twisted their hands so he could entwine their fingers. “Nothing of importance.”

She sighed. “It is important, Antoine. Bottling up your feelings will do you no good. Tell me?”

He spoke slowly, as if carefully selecting each word to get his point across. “It seems unjust, that we were spared while others weren't. Learning Marius is alive, I would have thought more could have made it if I hadn't...” he stopped himself, and it was with horror Sophie realised what was left unsaid. If he hadn't seen them die.

Clasping his hand tighter, she leaned in closer. “It's not unjust that you lived, but that they died.”

–

Standing outside Musichetta's door the following day, Sophie felt worried. She'd been knocking for several minutes, but there was still no answer. Knocking again, harder this time, she pressed her ear against the door. She could hear movement from inside the flat and sighed.

“Chetta, open up. I can hear you're in there!”

The noise stopped, then footsteps came closer to the door before it swung open. Musichetta looked well, albeit a bit pale. “I'm sorry, I didn't hear the door.”

Sophie's brow furrowed. “I was knocking for several minutes, how could you not have heard me?”

Musichetta's cheeks flushed as she stepped inside to let Sophie enter. Following her friend into the flat, Sophie still had the feeling something was amiss. Nothing looked out of place, but Musichetta seemed nervous and was avoiding eye contact.

“Chetta, what is the matter with you? If I didn't know any better I'd say you were avoiding me,” she said with a short laugh.

A guilty look came over Musichetta's face as she fidgeted with her skirt.

Sophie's stomach dropped. “You have been avoiding me? Why?”

“I need some time away, from you.” the words were quiet, barely above a whisper.

The words caught her by surprise and sent a jolt of pain through her. “What do you mean? Why are you saying this?”

Musichetta's eyes filled with tears, and her voice quivered when she spoke. “This isn't easy for me, Sophie. But when I see you it's a reminder Enjolras is alive. That he's alive and Henri is...” A sob broke through and she covered her mouth with her hand. “It's not fair, and it's not logical, but it's too soon. I've tried to ignore it, but I can't. I'm so sorry, please forgive me.”

Tearing up as well, Sophie nodded gravely. “I know, Chetta.” The tears spilt over, and she brushed them away quickly. “I wish you all the best.”

Brushing away her own tears, Musichetta nodded. “And I you, truly.”

Sophie kept her head down as she walked briskly home, trying to keep the tears at bay. Musichetta's words had hurt her deeply, and though she tried to understand her friend's reasoning she found she could not. By the time she was climbing the stairs to her flat, sadness had given way to resignation.

“That was quick,” Enjolras remarked as she entered. “She wasn't there?”

“She was. I'll explain later.” Removing her bonnet and shawl, she gestured to the open letter by his side. “From your parents?”

He nodded. “It's just arrived. You may read it, I don't mind.”

Sitting, she took up the letter. The feel of Enjolras' hand stroking the back of her neck made her smile and lean further into his touch.

June 30th, 1832

My dear Antoine,

Words cannot describe how relieved your mother and I were to hear from you. We had been waiting for weeks for any news and were practically on our way to Paris when your letter reached us. There is a time and place to reprimand your child for wrongful decisions, but this is not it. We are simply overjoyed you are alive and recovering. Hearing about the fate of your friends have made us both heavy-hearted, and I cannot begin the imagine the pain you feel.

On a different note, we were astonished to hear about your marriage, especially since you've never mentioned her or any other young lady previously. Sophie seems like a remarkably brave young woman, and we will be forever grateful to her for nursing you back to health. It's comforting to know there's a light in your life even after all that's happened

Please do not wait this long before writing again, you'll give both your mother and I grey hairs. We must insist you visit, or we come to you, in the near future. Do give our best to Sophie, and we hope we'll get the chance to meet her soon.

With love,  
Your father.

Folding the missive, Sophie put it down on the table. “Have you written back?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I thought you might like to write them as well?”

She touched his hand. “I would like that very much. They seem like fine people.”

“They've always been supportive, even when my political tendencies got me into trouble.” Sensing her melancholy, he kissed her hand. “Your father will come around, I'm sure of it.”

Sighing, she looked down at their hands. “I don't have much hope.” There had been no letters from him since the uprising, something Sophie saw as the final sign he wanted no contact with her. “I don't need him. You are my family now.”

He kissed her lightly. “And you are mine.”

–

It was a beautiful summer evening, but the closer the fiacre came to Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire the more tension settled into Enjolras' jaw.

Sophie touched his arm. “Are you alright, chéri?”

Nodding slightly, he covered her hand with his. “I am. I was only pondering what kind of welcome we might receive from Citizen Gillenormand.”

The same thoughts had been in her mind all day. She was nervous; she remembered what Courfeyrac had once told her about Marius' royalist grandfather, and she wasn't sure what to expect. While her childhood had been comfortable, her family were far from bourgeois, and despite Enjolras' insistence that no one would care what she was wearing, she found herself pulling out her best dress.

The gravel crunched underneath their feet as they went up the walkway, and she tried not to be intimidated by the imposing stature of the house. They were shown inside by a servant, and Sophie looked around wide-eyed at all the splendour. Footsteps approached, and her attention was drawn to an open doorway. Marius appeared, smiling largely. He was limping, leaning on a cane, and his arm was tied in a sling around his neck but there was light in his eyes and demeanour. On his arm was a petite brunette, dressed in a fashionable lavender gown. At the sight of them, she stepped forward with a dimpled smile.

“Monsieur and Madame Enjolras, it's so lovely to meet you both! Marius has told me so much about you, I feel I know you already.” She gave a quick curtsey. “I'm Cosette.”

Sophie smiled. “Please, call me Sophie.”

Stepping up to his fiancée, Marius nodded at Enjolras. “It was a relief to hear you were alive. I had almost given up hope when the news reached me.”

“For us as well,” Enjolras said. “I'm glad to see you are well.”

“It was wonderful news,” Sophie agreed. “And congratulations on your upcoming marriage.”

“Thank you,” Cosette beamed. “A joyful event is much needed after all the sadness we've experienced lately. Will you join me in the drawing room? I have so much I wish to ask you.”

Sophie met Enjolras' amused look with a chuckle as she followed Cosette into the drawing room. Cosette seemed like a sweet person; her eyes were large and warm, and she seemed eager to make them feel welcome.

They sat down on a brocade sofa, and Cosette folded her hands in her lap. “Marius told me you were also close friends with men who died in the uprising. I wept for them when I heard, it was terrible news.”

“I was, yes. It's still quite difficult to wrap my head around that they're gone,” Sophie admitted. She glanced to the other side of the room, where Marius and Enjolras were deep in conversation. “We're taking it one day at a time. It's all we can really do at this point.”

“I agree. That's why we decided to move up the wedding, neither one of us wanted to wait longer than we had to.” Her cheeks turned rosy for a second. “It's a tad unorthodox, but Monsieur Gillenormand has spared no expense for the preparations so it will all be finished in time. Have you and Enjolras been married long? I don't have any married friends, so I wish to know everything about your wedding. It's a big task to undertake, is it not?”

“We were married in late May, only weeks before the revolution. It wasn't a grand wedding by any means, but it suited us.” She smiled fondly at the memory, but it faded as Musichetta and Combeferre came to mind. Two friends who were lost to her, albeit in different ways. She shook herself out of the memories. “At any rate, I'm sure your wedding will be lovely.”

“Oh, do say you'll both come to our wedding? It would mean the world to us, and Marius in particular. He doesn't speak much of it, but I know he misses his friends.”

Sophie smiled. “We'd be honoured to attend.” 

They were called to dinner soon after, and Sophie touched Enjolras' arm lightly as she sat down next him. He offered a smile in return. Dinner was lively; Cosette seemed determined they not let the horrors of the past cloud their minds, and upheld a bright spirit with topics that were neither to trite nor too serious. Friendly discussions arose, and for a moment Sophie felt like she was back at the Musain. During a particularly daring joke, she could almost hear Courfeyrac's laughter in her ear. Instead of this making her sad, it only filled her with a sense of stillness. She would love and miss her friends for the rest of her life, but the pain lessened a bit with every passing day.

“What are your plans now? Resume your law studies?” Marius asked Enjolras over dessert.

“I don't know if that's possible,” Enjolras answered. His eyes met Sophie's for a second. “It might be best to stay away from such public affairs, at least for a time. I can think of a few professors who would alert the police the minute I stepped foot in their classroom after what's happened.”

“There must be some professors with republican sympathies?” Cosette asked. “It seems cruel to keep you from your studies.”

Enjolras smiled politely, though Sophie could see the tension in his jaw. “Cruel is a matter of perspective, Mademoiselle.”

Cosette's face flushed. “Of course. I only meant some normalcy may be good for us all.”

Sophie touched his hand gently, and his tension lessened. “I think it will be a while before any of us can resume a sense of normalcy.”

After dinner, they once again retired to the drawing room where conversation continued to flow freely. Sophie found herself alone with Marius as Cosette showed Enjolras some books from the floor to ceiling bookcase by the window.

She smiled at the way Marius stole glances at his fiancée. “I'm happy for you and Cosette. She is lovely,” she said, and Marius turned his head to look at her.

“Thank you. It still hardly seems real we're together at last. I was sure I'd lost her forever. It's why I returned to the barricade,” he added, a bit shamefully. “I saw no point in living unless I could be with her.”

“A bit melodramatic, don't you think?” she teased, and Marius chuckled.

“Admittedly.” His face fell. “I sometimes wonder if surviving the revolution is my punishment for not believing in it as much as the others did.”

Sophie touched his arm lightly. “You know that's not true, and your friends would chide you for such a comment.”

“What serious faces you have,” Cosette's voice interrupted them, and Marius shot up from his seat.

“We were only reminiscing, my darling. Ah, grandfather, I didn't know you'd be joining us.”

Sophie stood as Monsieur Gillenormand entered the drawing room. Despite his age, he walked with the air of a much younger man and without the assistance of a cane. He was dressed richly, and his steely eyes reminded her of a hawk.

“Only for a nightcap. The hour is getting rather late, is it not?”

Cosette rushed forward to take his arm. “Oh, I do hope we've not been a disturbance?”

His eyes softened. “Nonsense, dear child.”

“Grandfather,” Marius said. “Let me introduce my dear friends, Antoine and Sophie Enjolras.”

Gillenormand eyed them disdain, and Sophie fidgeted under his scrutinizing gaze. “Charmed. I'll not disturb you further,” he directed at Marius. “Good evening.”

As Gillenormand left the room, Marius turned to them with pinked cheeks. “He tires easily,” he explained.

Sophie and Enjolras left shortly after, but not before Sophie promised Cosette to help with some details for the wedding soon.

“Monsieur Gillenormand didn't seem particularly happy to meet us,” Sophie said as they walked down to the street to find a fiacre. “He was quite rude.”

“I don't blame him,” Enjolras answered. “In his mind, I'm probably responsible for corrupting his grandson.”

Sophie scoffed. “So he's conveniently forgotten it was his actions that pushed Marius towards the Amis and the revolution in the first place?”

“It's not that simple,” Enjolras said as a fiacre stopped next to them. After giving the driver the address he helped Sophie inside before taking a seat.

She adjusted her gloves and held on to his arm as the fiacre started moving. “I suppose you're right. They seem to have forgiven each other, and that is all that matters.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: After much stress, anxiety and consideration, I've decided that this is the final chapter of this little story of mine. A massive thank you to all who have read and enjoyed, it means more to me than you know.
> 
> I have plans to make more stories within this universe, but I can't say when they will actually be written.

**Chapter 13 ******

********

********

Over the next three weeks, Sophie spent a great deal of time with Cosette in preparation for the younger woman's upcoming wedding. Not surprisingly, she had met Gillenormand a few times, and the old man showed her as much disdain as he had on their first meeting. The first time it happened, Cosette's cheeks flushed as soon as he'd left the room, and she'd stammered out an apology.

“You need not apologise,” Sophie reassured her. “His opinion of me matters very little.”

Listening to Cosette talk about the wedding and her future with Marius made Sophie wonder what the future had in store for her and Enjolras. She'd still not found any work, and the days she was not with Cosette were spent cooped up in the flat with Enjolras. Wonderful as it was spending time together, the inactivity and cramped quarters were making them both restless. Neither one of them were used to having so much free time on their hands.

“I feel like every time we accomplish something on the list, two more things take their place,” Cosette sighed as they exited a lace shop on Rue Chapon. They had spent the better part of the day in various shops in the Marais, and both women were a bit weary.

The new friends parted ways a while later, Cosette hailing a fiacre back to Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire and Sophie finding an omnibus to take her across the river back to the Latin Quartier. It was a hot day, even for July, and Sophie wished she could push her sleeves up for comfort's sake. As it were, she had to make do with fanning herself as she boarded the omnibus. It was cramped with people, and the overwhelming smell of sweat and perfume made her nauseated. Once across the river, she alighted on Rue du Foin and walked the rest of the way home. Whilst still hot out, it was better than being trapped on the ripe omnibus, and she delighted in being out in the fresh air again.

The flat lay quiet when she entered, and calling out Enjolras' name gave her no response. It was unusual that he was out in the daytime; with the threat of discovery looming over them he usually only ventured outside once darkness had fallen. He was far too recognisable to walk around safely in daylight, especially in the Latin Quarter, and she tried to quench her worry.

It was sometime later, as she was preparing dinner, that Enjolras walked through the door. His hat was askew and he was breathing hard, as if he'd run a long way. Face pale, he leaned against the closed door.

She rushed to his side. “What's wrong?”

Pushing off his hat and running a hand through his hair, he sighed. “I was almost discovered.”

Sophie froze. She could almost hear the thundering footsteps on the stairs already. Shaking herself out of it, she grabbed his arm and lead him to the kitchen table. “What happened?”

Sitting, he rested his head in his hands. “I ran into the National Guard. I ducked into an alley to dodge them and must have stayed there for half an hour before I dared leave. I don't think they recognised me.”

“That was a close call,” Sophie said, resting a hand between his shoulder blades. She rubbed the tightness there until he relaxed underneath her touch.

He lifted his head to look at her. “Too close. Perhaps it's unrealistic for us to think we can remain here.”

Her hand stilled. “Here, as in here in Paris?”

Nodding, he straightened and took her hand in his. “The thought has crossed my mind before today, but I didn't give it much weight. After today though...” He sighed. “It only takes one person to go to the police, and I'll be thrown in La Force, at best. Most likely, I'd be executed.”

A shiver ran through her. “Please don't talk like that.”

“But it's true.” He sighed. “If we stay here, this will be my life. I can't resume my studies, can't find work. Too many people, important people, know me and my alliances. Furthermore, this city now only reminds me of what I've lost, what we've lost.”

She stroked his hair, fingers running along the length of the thin scar partially covered by his curls. “Do we have to make a decision right now?”

“We don't.”

Her hand slid down to his neck, fingers loosening the knot of his cravat. “Why were you out today anyway?”

“I had an errand to run,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. “For you.”

Sophie frowned, letting her hand fall away. Enjolras wasn't a romantically inclined man, and she would never have thought him to buy gifts without any particular reason. “For me?”

“Well, for us.” He held out his palm, revealing two plain silver rings. Wedding bands. “I know it's long overdue. With everything that's happened in the past months, it had slipped my mind until recently. Can you forgive me?”

Looking from the rings to meet his eyes, a warmth pooled in her stomach and radiated throughout her body. “There's nothing to forgive; I hadn't even realised it myself. Are you going to put it on me?”

A boyish grin appeared on his face, and she thought she felt his hand tremble slightly as he slid the ring onto her finger. It was an unusual weight; strange but no unpleasant. Mirroring the gesture, she ran her finger over the cool surface of the wedding band before continuing up over his knuckles.

She pressed her lips hard against his, the fear and relief coursing through her making her almost desperate. He met her kiss with equal fervour as her mouth opened against his. They stood as one, dinner forgotten as they went towards the bed. They undressed each other slowly, kissing every new expanse of skin that was revealed. Once he stood naked in front of her, her breath hitched as she laid eyes on the red scar on his ribs. It would always be a reminder that she almost lost him, and the thought of it was almost too much to bear. Reaching out, she traced the raised skin gently. He exhaled sharply, fingers tightening slightly on her hips.

Reclaiming her mouth, his hands slid down to cup her bottom and pull her body flush against his own. Settling down on the bed and pulling her on top of him, Enjolras tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her deeply. The heat from her centre was slowly driving him insane, and he couldn't stop the movement of his hips against hers. She lifted herself up and sunk down on his length with a gasp and a groan of his name, nails digging into his skin. Smiling against her mouth, he grabbed her hips to guide her movements. She sat up, leaning her hands on his chest to steady herself as she continued moving. Enjolras fought against his eyes closing, not wanting to tear his gaze away. She was beautiful; with tousled hair, swollen lips, and skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Her eyes fluttered closed as her movements sped up, his name falling from her mouth in a sigh.

Sneaking a hand between them, he stroked the nub that made her clench around him and let out a groan. He watched as she fell apart, and held her trembling body as she collapsed on top of him. Lifting her head, she grinned and rolled her hips against his. Matching her smile, he rolled them over and started pushing towards his own release. He grabbed her thigh, pulling it up over his hip to thrust deeper. Her lips at his throat and her fingers in his hair spurred him on, and he buried his face in her neck as his release coursed through him.

When his vision cleared, he became aware she was softly kissing his face. “I love you,” he whispered, “so much.”

Lips stopping at his temple, her arms tightened around him. “And I you.”

–

As the date for the trial of the insurgents came closer and the gendarme increased their patrols through the city, Enjolras stopped going outside altogether. Although he didn't say it, Sophie knew the trial was wearing heavy on his conscience. She had no doubts that had it not been for her, he would have turned himself in; standing tall beside the others and accepting whatever verdict was given him.

On the morning of the trial, a letter arrived from Haute-Loire.

“What does your mother write?” Sophie asked before taking a sip of coffee.

“News from the Midi mostly,” Enjolras answered, still engrossed in the letter. “She's persistent for us to visit.” Looking up, his eyes gleamed. “I'm not sure who she wants to see more, me or you.”

She chuckled. “You know that's not true. Your mother just wants to see you happy.”

He half-smiled and reached up to brush the hair from her face. “What are your plans for today?”

Sophie hesitated. “I want to go to the trial. I don't know why but I feel like I should be there. To show my respect.”

He sighed. “I suppose I can't convince you it's a terrible idea?”

She shook her head. “I'll be careful, I promise.”

The trial was set to start at ten in the morning, and although Sophie arrived at the Palais du Justice almost thirty minutes prior to that, the large hall was already brimming with people. It made her a bit calmer; there was an anonymity in numbers, Joseph had once taught her, and she was grateful for that at the moment. She spotted several familiar faces in the crowd as she made her way up to the gallery, but they were greeted only by a short nod. She wasn't sure who was watching.

Choosing a spot close to the back, Sophie stretched her neck to see down to the courtroom. A group of lancers stood by a door opposite the gallery, and she was relieved that Bouchard wasn't amongst them. The buzz in the room silenced as another door opened and the first prisoner was lead in, flanked by two guards. Sophie couldn't contain the gasp that escaped her mouth. He didn't look a day over twenty, with unkempt brown hair and nervous eyes flickering around the room. His clothes were filthy and much too big for him, doing nothing to hide his thin frame.

The judge spoke, his booming voice echoing in the large hall. “Jean Vigouroux, you stand before us on suspicion of your involvement in the uprising on June 5th and 6th of this year. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” the boy stammered.

As the trial progressed, Sophie became more and more uneasy. Her nails dug into her palms and she clenched her fists tightly, and there was a tightness in her chest. More of the insurgents were lead out in front of the judge and in their faces, all she could see were her friends. They were all scared, with fidgeting hands and shaking voices, some claiming they weren't at the barricade, that they didn't fire a single shot, that they were forced to participate. It was hours later before the trial let out for the day, and Sophie quickly made her way downstairs and outside.

Leaning against one of the stone pillars, she closed her eyes and took deep, shaky breaths. Unwanted images of Enjolras bound in chains ran through her mind, and she bit her lip hard to quench a sob.

“Madame, are you all right?”

Turning, she locked eyes with a man in his late thirties. She recognised him as one of the insurgent's lawyer. “Yes, thank you, Monsieur. I'm quite all right.”

“This trial is no place for a woman, it's far too upsetting.”

“No more upsetting than the cause for it,” she said, standing up straight.

His demeanour softened. “In that you are correct. Have a pleasant day, Madame.” He tipped his hat before leaving.

By now most of the attendees from the trial were making their way back to their usual business, and Sophie took advantage of the crowd to slip unseen down the steps of the Palais de Justice. The trial had left an uneasy feeling inside her, and she wished to return to the flat as fast as she could.

Practically running from the omnibus stop to the flat, she was breathless when she finally entered the tenement. As he was wont to do, Enjolras was seated at the kitchen table. Only the disarray of his hair betrayed he wasn't as calm as he appeared. His eyes were troubled as they followed her form, but he didn't speak.

Sitting, she folded her arms on the table. “I think we should leave.”

If her statement surprised him, he didn't let it show. “How was the trial?”

She shook her head. “All I could think of was you, and Combeferre, and Courfeyrac and the rest of the boys. It could have been you at that trial. I can't lose you,” she whispered. “I can't, not again. I'm not strong enough.”

He touched her arm gently. “You won't, I promise. We'll leave, as soon as we're able.”

Catching his hand, she squeezed it tightly. “As long as we're together.”

–

They spent the next several days making all the necessary arraignments. Some were easy, such as writing Enjolras' parents about their upcoming move and letting Madame Rossi know they would be vacating the flat soon, whilst some were a bit more tricky. Sophie tried to get to Enjolras' old flat to pick up the stray books and other personal effects she'd not managed to get the last time but found the locks had been changed. It was common practice if tenants failed to pay rent, but Enjolras was not fazed by it.

“There was nothing left there that can't be replaced,” he'd told Sophie when she gave him the news.

Selling most of the furniture, with the understanding it could not be picked up until the day of the move, meant there was some extra money to buy two new carpet bags. It was most necessary, as their combined books filled almost half of her worn trunk.

“Maybe we should reconsider bringing all the books,” Sophie huffed, putting her hands akimbo as she watched Enjolras rearrange the position of their packed books for the third time. “We cannot possibly need all of them.”

Enjolras nodded, pulling out a large pile of books. “I could leave most of my law textbooks. I doubt I shall be needing them anytime soon.”

She wiped at her clammy forehead with her sleeve. Despite throwing all windows open, it was almost unbearably hot in the flat. “I suppose I should be glad I don't have much of a trousseau; we would never be able to fit everything if I did,” she said, mostly to herself, as she sank down on a chair. “I can't believe I only moved in a year and a half ago.”

“Do you regret it? Moving here, I mean.”

Looking over at him, she smiled. “Never.” In his shirtsleeves and illuminated by the slowly setting sun, he seemed almost otherworldly. It was enough to make her feel warm all over again, and not from the weather.

He gave her an amused look. “Do I have ink on my face again?”

Chuckling at the memory, she shook her head. “No. I'm merely enjoying the sight of my husband.”

Standing, he walked up to her. “Are you now?”

The look in his eyes made her stomach clench pleasantly. “Yes,” she exhaled. She shrieked when he grabbed her waist and hoisted her over his shoulder. “Antoine!” As he walked them to the bed, her laugh could be heard through the warm evening air.

–

Sunday afternoon saw Sophie walking up the stairs to Musichetta's flat, while Enjolras waited downstairs. They'd been to the Marais the day before, telling Marius and Cosette of their plans. Cosette had been upset but understanding, and promises to correspond were made before the couple was allowed to leave.

Knocking firmly on the door, she was surprised when it opened almost immediately. Musichetta was still dressed for church, and her smile faded quickly when she saw Sophie.

“Hello,” Sophie said tentatively, wringing her hands. “May I come in?”

Musichetta stepped aside. “Yes, of course.”

Glancing around, Sophie noticed some differences from when she was there last. The flat felt less gloomy; the open windows flooded the flat with sunlight and there was a vase of fresh flowers on the kitchen table. Still, she recognised one of Joly's coats hanging on the back of a chair and his medical bag sitting by the door, and the sight of it dampened her spirits. She looked back at Musichetta. “I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time?”

“No, I've just come from church.” Musichetta paused before sighing. “Why are you here, Sophie?”

“I know things haven't changed,” Sophie started, “but I needed to say this in person. Antoine and I are leaving Paris. Tomorrow.”

The older woman couldn't quite hide the surprise on her face. “Leaving? Why?”

“We can't stay here any longer, it's too dangerous,” Sophie said. “The constant fear of Antoine being discovered looming over us, it's no life to live.”

“I see. Where will you go?”

“To Antoine's parents, until we figure out what to do next. I'll write to you when we get settled in, wherever that may be. You don't have to write back right away, just...” She swallowed hard. “That way you'll know where to write to. If you want.”

Musichetta smiled hesitantly. “I'd like that. I wish you, and Enjolras, all the best.”

Sophie returned the smile. “And I, you. Goodbye, Musichetta.”

Enjolras looked worriedly at her when she joined him in the entryway. “Are you all right?”

Touching his face, she smiled slightly. “I am. It's hard saying goodbye, though I know it's for the best.”

Their next stop was the Jardin du Luxembourg. Despite her protests, he had insisted. Still, she was tense as they entered the park. Since the weather was so fine, there were plenty of people strolling and conversing. With his hat pulled down low over his eyes and covering most of his hair, Sophie hoped it was enough to conceal his identity should someone look closer than a casual glance. Without her realising it, he'd steered her to the smaller pathway on the west corner of the gardens, where they'd confessed their feelings only months prior.

Sitting on that same stone bench, Sophie smiled wistfully. “I remember the last time we were here.”

“It feels like a lifetime ago,” Enjolras said, touching the back of her neck.

She hummed in response, leaning into his touch. “Despite everything that's happened, I feel sad leaving. We've lost so much here, so many people dear to us; Joseph, Henriette, all the boys. With all that death, shouldn't leaving feel like a blessing?”

He slid his hand down to clasp hers. “I couldn't say.”

“Combeferre probably could,” she said softly. “He always had an answer for everything.”

His fingers tightened slightly around hers. “He did. Ever since I met him, he always knew what to say.”

She turned her head to look at him. “I miss them,” she whispered. “Every day.”

His eyes were sad as they met hers. “As do I.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a bloodstained cockade.

Sophie frowned. “Is that...”

Enjolras nodded, eyes fixed on the piece of cloth in his hand. “I found it last week, underneath the bed.” He stroked his thumb over the blue centre. “I used to believe in this more than anything.”

“You don't anymore?”

“I do not know what I believe in anymore.”

Unsure what to say, she settled for squeezing his hand tighter. “We should leave it here,” she said at length. “There are no graves for them, no place to mourn. This is a special place for us, it should be here.”

Enjolras bent down and pushed aside some of the gravel and dirt underneath the bench. Once there was a deep enough hole, he put the cockade in and patted down the dirt on top of it. When he was done it hardly looked like the earth had been disturbed at all. Tears burnt behind his eyes, and he blinked them away firmly. A part of him didn't want to leave, didn't want to risk losing the memories of his friends, but the bigger part could no longer stand the city; the places that once gave him comfort now only made him angry.

Looking up at Sophie, he saw tears in her eyes as well. The city had betrayed them irrevocably, in more ways than one. It was time for a new life, albeit a different one than he had imagined. Either way, he couldn't imagine not being at her side. He knew nothing of what the future would bring, but as long as he had her he knew it would be all right.

Standing, he reached his hand towards her. She accepted it with a smile, entwining their fingers and stepping in close. With one final glance, they walked away towards their new beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Like it? Loathe it? Love it? Let me know.


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